Stay with Me
by CrawleyHouse
Summary: "Stay with me?" It was not love between them. At least, not anymore. It was something that had grown much older, a little wiser and far more comfortable than love. It came from the mutual respect and experiences they'd shared. The whispered secrets they had told each other in an abandoned classroom long ago. But then, perhaps it was love after all. Just in an altered form.
1. Stay with me

**Stay with Me**

Stumbling to a halt, Professor McGonagall stopped in front of the stone gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office in an attempt to catch her breath and remember the password. She had no need of it, however, the gargoyle sprang aside as the haughty shadow of Severus Snape slid down the wall.

He half raised an eyebrow at her rumpled robes and laboured breathing. She'd obviously run down the four flights of stairs from Gryffindor Tower as soon as she'd been summoned. The way she was clutching her chest told him that she should not be running anywhere, especially considering she'd only given up her walking stick little more than a fortnight ago. A dishevelled Minerva McGonagall was a disturbingly out of place sight.

"Severus," she started, it was almost a gasp. His eyes were bloodshot and the buttons on his shirt were only half done up; those that were, in the wrong holes. His hair had flopped forward over his face; hollow and drained. It was so late in the night it may as well have been morning and he momentarily wondered why she was still dressed.

"He is alive, Minerva."

She did not stop long enough to be hurt that she had not been called upon first and Snape stepped aside and let the flustered witch pass. She was very nimble, he observed, watching her take the steps two at a time.

"Of all wretched things…." He swore softly to no one in particular, stalking away in a great billowing black cloud.

She did not bother to knock and burst into his study like a great ruffled bird.

He was half hunched over his desk, half collapsed in his chair. His right arm stretched out gingerly beside an empty goblet.

" _Albus, your hand!"_

The words almost leapt from her lips unbidden but she drew her mouth tight and straight. Albus Dumbledore was not one to divulge anything before he was good and ready to do so. She suspected he had heard her internal exclamation nonetheless, judging by the way he was looking at her so feelingly over his half-moon spectacles. He had, after all, known her a very long time and she was not a very good liar.

"Don't look so grim Minerva, no one has died." He observed, in what was obviously an attempt of warmth. But his face was so pale under his mane of white hair. He looked frail. A word she had never even considered in the long list of terms she had thought to use in his description at one point or another. She dropped her proud head, sank into the chair across from him and whispered in a low voice.

"They are starting to."

Colour tried to rise up Dumbledore's face, faltered and clung feebly to his cheeks.

"Florean?"

"We can't find him, Albus. What would he know that they…" but Dumbledore swayed precariously in his chair.

"This may have to wait for another time." He murmured, eyes closed. Trying to deepen his breathing.

Alarmed, she stood up abruptly, upsetting her chair. She had half a mind to run and fetch Poppy but her rationality soon overtook her panic, as it always did, and she realised if there was anything Poppy could do she would already be here. Severus Snape was many things but he was not a stupid man and she had done more than enough running for one night. Dumbledore had no moved in all her commotion. She righted her chair self-consciously and made as if to leave.

"Stay with me?"

It was almost not a sound at all. Barely a whisper but there was something that she recognised in his voice that froze her in place and jolted her heart like an electric shock. It was something she had heard many times and many years ago from the mouths of strangers and friends alike. It was something she was unlikely to ever forget. It was the sound of a man who knew he was going to die.

Suddenly very cold she sat down heavily, lest her legs give out from underneath her.

It was not love between them. At least, not anymore. It was something that had grown much older, a little wiser and far more comfortable than love. It came from the mutual respect and experiences they'd shared. The whispered secrets they had told each other in an abandoned classroom long ago. But then, perhaps it was love after all.

"Of course." She acquiesced softly, reaching across the broad desk for his whole and healthy hand.

Dumbledore squeezed her fingers gently, never so grateful for Minerva McGonagall as he was now.

Healthy it may have been but Dumbledore's grip was as weak as the trembling fingers around her own. Alarm made her quake as subtly as the older man's twitching beard. She had known fear. As certainly as she had known grief, but they had never combined into such a heady concoction as she felt now. Save for eleven years of her life. She had never known a world without Albus Dumbledore and the frightful prospect that that world would soon be drawing to a close was suddenly a tremendous amount to bear.

He squeezed her hand again, a little more firmly this time, and she realised her eyes were swimming.


	2. 1951

**A/N**

 _Hi everybody, thanks for reading. This story explores the relationship between Dumbledore and McGonagall, stretching from her time as a student at Hogwarts to his death in HBP. I've tried to keep as canon as possible while still letting the MMAD ship sail. Your reviews and messages would greatly help me keep steering the story in the right direction, let me know when I hit and when I miss. This chapter is the beginning of 6th year._

 _Enjoy._

 **1951**

"McGonagall!" a loud voice called out from the staircase opposite. "Oi! Minerva!" The broad shouldered boy pushed his way through a crowd of second years. His long fringe had flopped down into his eyes and he tried to push it back up into a careless quiff.

"I got Dumbledore to book the pitch for tryouts this Friday afternoon. We are a chaser and a beater short this year and I need you and Alaine there. 6 o'clock. No excuses."

Minerva was barely given the chance to blink before Sterling Barrett rushed off to a class he was obviously late for. She'd forgotten that Verity and Balthazar had finished school last year and she was not much excited at the prospect of having to adapt her style to a new chaser. By the time she sat beside Augusta in Ancient Runes she was in a thoroughly bad mood.

All through dinner she huffed into her shepherd's pie between passages of _Trans-species Transfiguation._ She didn't even notice when Ivy Jones came over from Ravenclaw's table.

"What's her problem?" She asked Augusta, loudly enough for Minerva to hear her.

"NEWTs … or Quidditch. Sterling posted for tryouts tomorrow."

Ivy sighed sympathetically, she was Ravenclaw's seeker. Their house tryouts would not be until next week though. Which gave her plenty of time to find a spare moment to brush the cobwebs off the proverbial broom. She looked up at the ceiling, there was still plenty of yellow amongst the creeping red. Minerva shouldn't be concerned about her place on the team. She was an excellent flier and the strongest chaser Gryffindor had over the last three years but there was not much a few laps around the pitch couldn't solve.

"Minerva." Ivy stated matter-of-factly. Taking the book from her hands and setting it down on the table. Minerva McGonagall gave her friend a pointed glare. "Go get your broom and come fly with me. I need to get back into practice before the season starts."

She began absentminded pushing peas around her plate instead.

"I don't much feel like flying today." She replied, curtly.

"Nonsense. I'll meet you down there." Ivy swung her legs over the bench and left the Gryffindor table, very much aware she had taken Minerva's book with her.

…

Minerva trudged down the path to the quidditch pitch with her broom over her shoulder, already feeling better in the fresh air. A figure much larger than Ivy was coming up from the opposite direction. She recognised him immediately.

"Good evening Miss McGonagall." Professor Dumbledore greeted pleasantly, "I was under the impression Mr Barrett had organised try outs for tomorrow night." He sounded concerned and she thought perhaps he was planning on watching.

"He has," she confirmed, "Ivy Jones asked if I'd fly with her and took my book with her for encouragement."

"That girl has a profound talent for pushing you in the right direction." Dumbledore observed cheerily, his eyes twinkling behind a pair of half-moon spectacles she had not noticed before. "I'll not keep you from her company any longer. Enjoy your evening."

"And you, professor."

When she reached the pitch Ivy was soaring some 20ft above her, speeding to catch a cricket ball she'd enchanted. Minerva straddled her own broom and kicked off, a little harder than necessary, to join her. She was immediately grateful to Ivy the moment her feet left the ground, the warm September breeze ruffled up her braided hair and lightened her loaded mind. She tumble rolled in elation before corkscrewing her way towards the goal posts.

"Glad to see you finally made it." Ivy called from across the pitch, lobbing the cricket ball as fast as she could. Minerva shot straight upwards and caught the ball before it could begin its downward arc. Flipping backwards in a measured semi-circle back to playing height.

"Show-off."

Minerva smiled sheepishly and threw Ivy her ball back.

"I'm not the one who pulled off that feint last year, that wasn't very fair to the Hufflepuff seeker."

Ivy sniffed indignantly. "Maybe not but Hufflepuff's keeper didn't pull a Starfish-with-no-Stick did they?"

Minerva winced at the memory.

They spent the rest of the evening speeding around the spectator towers, dive bombing and chasing each other, both stretching out the full extent of their arsenal of aerial manoeuvres. By the time they touched back down a cramp was forming under one of Minerva's shoulder blades and Ivy was walking strangely in an attempt to stretch out her hamstring. As they approached the castle Ivy reached into her bag.

"Oh, Minerva. I'd forgotten I had your book." Ivy grinned impishly and hurried off towards Ravenclaw Tower."

…

Friday morning saw Sterling Barret nodding off to sleep with his head in his hand at the breakfast table and Augusta Wallis jabbing him sharply in the ribs between bites of toast. Walter Longbottom was pouring coffee for him with a somewhat sympathetic expression.

"He was up all night planning drills." He explained, passing the coffee to Augusta. She hit his shoulder sharply and shoved the cup under is nose.

"Here, you dolt. Now wake up."

Sterling mumbled an unintelligible thanks and sank his face deep into his cup. Minerva let him stuff a few strips of bacon into his mouth before urging him to his feet.

"Come on," she advised, "We'll be late otherwise."

Walter consulted his own watch before clamping his toast between his teeth and shouldering his bag. He picked up the stack of Augusta's books she'd left on the table and started off after Minerva, pulling along Sterling with his free hand. As they reached the transfiguration corridor Sterling seemed to perk up immediately. Ivy was already waiting for them.

" _What's wrong with him?_ " she mouth to Minerva as they filed inside. A handful of students were already inside.

" _Quidditch._ " She mouthed back. Unpacking her books onto her desk, Ivy began to follow suit but looked over her shoulder towards Sterling, who was being propped up on either side by Walter and Augusta, with a queer look on her face. By the time they sat down Professor Dumbledore had strolled merrily into class as if he was pleasantly surprised they were already there.

"This morning you will require _The Human Transformation_ by Madam Mim Dopple and your wands, please." He requested, starting to draw up what looked to be an intensely complex formula on the blackboard.

"Mr Longbottom did someone slip Mr Barrett a sleeping draught in his pumpkin juice this morning?" Looking over his peculiarly new spectacles at the two boys. Walter looked up from his paper, confused for a moment before realising Sterling had nodded off again.

"Oh… no sir."

"Give him a poke then." He winked, turning back to his equation.

"s'appened?" came a groggy exclamation from behind Minerva. Someone giggled.

"You are in transfiguration Mr Barrett," Dumbledore supplied kindly, "I'd enjoy Gryffindor's victory this year as much as you would but right now I need your attention here." The same giggle came again, softer this time, Minerva was appalled to find it sourced from the witch seated next to her.

It was halfway through their double period before Dumbledore had distributed hand mirrors amongst them and requested they alter the colour of their eyebrows.

It had taken Ivy half a dozen attempts before one of her eyebrows darkened marginally. Augusta had gone red in the face from concentration but that was all she had managed to change. Minerva was studying Dumbledore's equation carefully, dissecting it piece by piece and matching it against what Madam Dopple had written about the inconsistency of uniformity in human traits between individuals. There was a loud crack behind her and she turned in time to see Sterling clutching his face like someone had punched him in the mouth. He'd accidently given himself a rather impressive handle bar moustache.

Minerva dropped her eyes back to her books before she convinced herself she understood the theory behind the spell, examined her eyebrows critically in her mirror, moved her wand very quickly in one direction than the other and strongly enunciated the incantation. Almost immediately her dark brows turned a very similar colour to Professor Dumbledore's auburn hair. By the end of class Gryffindor was up 10 points and Ivy was wishing wistfully her blonde eyebrows would stay the light brown she'd managed to transfigure them to.

"Miss McGonagall stay behind please."

Minerva packed up her bag but walked up to the professor's desk rather than follow her classmates to Charms.

"Sir?"

Dumbledore removed his glasses, studied them briefly before tossing them across the desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I was reviewing your timetable yesterday evening. Are you sure you are not asking too much of yourself?" There was deep concern in the blue eyes that searched her face.

"Quite sure," she raised her chin, "I'd like to have a range of options when I leave Hogwarts."

"Ah, still undecided then?" he asked, thinking back to their careers advice last year.

She shrugged non-committedly. "I don't like to be limited." She confessed.

"Very well, though take care not to burn the candle at both ends won't you?" he implored gently.

"I'll try, Professor."

"Good. Now go learn something." And he shooed her away.

Minerva McGonagall was an exceptionally bright and talented witch and if he were any kind of seer he was sure he would see a very bright and stimulating future for her. If any student could achieve 8 NEWTs she could.


	3. Gripes with Grammar

**Gripes with Grammar**

Quidditch season had hit Hogwarts so suddenly and with such intensity that it had sent a great number of its players reeling. Sterling had managed to fill in Gryffindor's empty places with a broad shouldered fourth year boy, Jeremy Kent, as their newest beater and Minerva had been pleasantly surprised at how adaptable Edgar Jones had become as a part of their chaser's trio. Their first game was the Sunday after Halloween and they were all feeling the strain of Sterling's intense regime. Alaine Smith had taken to random fits of tears. Porter Wentworth had collapsed at the dinner table and, though insisting he was fine, was rushed off to Madam Doufant in the hospital wing where Slytherin's seeker was already in residence. Even Minerva had developed a twitch under her left eye.

Though Ravenclaw weren't to play until the end of November; Ivy was showing similar symptoms of fatigue. She'd acquired a matching pair of dark circles under her eyes and seemed to not have enough time in the day to brush her hair anymore.

It had taken a particularly useless training session in which Jeremy was almost beaten with his own bat before Minerva put her foot down. Soaked and shivering on her broom she told her fellow chasers to go and shower before pulling Sterling aside.

"You cannot keep whipping us like this." She put out flatly, doing her best to ignore the rain streaming into her eyes. Sterling was obviously too tired to work up the amount of anger required to reprimand her.

"Porter hasn't been able to hit anything this side of Bournemouth all week!" he huffed defensively, still wielding Jeremy's bat.

"And our keeper didn't make it to his Astronomy class last night." She cut him off. "Ivy told me." She herself had been in the common room until 3am finishing off Professor Slughorn's assignment on the validity of Golpalott's Third Law of potion making and had not seen him come down from the boy's dorm.

"I fell asleep." He confessed.

"We can't win if we can't keep our heads up." She prodded him sharply in the shoulder with each word. "We are a good team. Have a little faith and cut us some slack." She shouldered her broom and marched off to the change rooms without another word.

The next morning she was relieved to overhear Sterling explaining to Edgar and Mallory that he would be cutting Wednesday's training entirely and shortening Monday and Friday's sessions to an hour a piece. She skipped breakfast to read over her potions essay one last time and hurried down to the dungeons, wrapping up her unruly hair as she went into a bun on the top of her head, rushing headlong into Professor Dumbledore and knocking the stack of books he was carrying to the floor.

She blurted a frantic apology, an embarrassed blush creeping under her collar, and immediately began collecting the tomes from the stairs.

"I'm so sorry Professor!" she implored but Dumbledore ceased her scrambling with a weighed hand on her shoulder. He was studying her face very intensely.

"I did hope you would have paid at least a little attention to my advice Miss McGonagall." His tone was that of pleasantly veiled concern and she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of his glasses. She had a distinctly frazzled appearance; her face looked lean, her cheeks gaunt and only amplified by the shadows that had begun to creep out from the corner of her eyes. Her hair, unbrushed and wild as the Scottish highlands was piled messily on top of her head save for the section she'd missed by the nape of her neck.

She tried to brush off his worry, "It's only October. I'm just finding my stride." She lied and unconvincingly too.

"The _end_ of October." Dumbledore rebutted, gravely, "See to it that the festivities perk you up or we will be exchanging opinions in my office." He warned, summoning his fallen books wordlessly and dismissing her with a flash of his eyes. Minerva lifted her chin defiantly but left all the same.

She was late. The class was already seated though Slughorn was nowhere to be seen.

"River dancing by the lake again, McGonagall?" a Slytherin boy leered quietly as she added her essay to the stack on Professor Slughorn's desk.

"That would be the Irish." Her retort cracked like a whip despite its low volume.

An evil smirk twisted his already sneering face. "Mud is mud."

A hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her away and behind the table.

"Minerva, don't." It was Walter Longbottom's voice low in her ear, "I overheard my Aunt Callidora mention something very unsavoury about his Uncle." Minerva continued to glare over the top of her cauldron.

"Her father is a muggle after all-"

"Minerva! No!"

He didn't even have time to draw his wand.

A loud bang like a gunshot reverberated around the room quickly followed by a cacophony of shrieks, yells and what sounded like the frantic flapping of wings.

"WHAT IS THE _MEANING_ OF THIS?" Professor Slughorn was difficult to rile up, but waving his arms over his head trying to disperse the smoke that had filled his classroom, he was livid. He vanished the flock of birds furiously attacking Kenneth Parkinson who wasted no time in pointing directly at Minerva.

"She attacked me!"

"Is this true, Miss McGonagall?" he looked positively flabbergasted.

"He-" Walter and Ivy, who had heard the whole exchange, immediately puffed up to defend her but Minerva cut them short. Her empty hands clenched in fists.

"Yes." She hissed between her teeth.

"I think you'd better go to Professor Dumbledore young lady." He huffed, scribbling on a slip of parchment with an ostentatious quill. "And you will see me after class."

Minerva not so much as took rather than snatched the note he was handing her, swung her bag over her shoulder and stormed out.

…

Peeking past the doorframe she discovered the Transfiguration classroom empty and headed instead to Dumbledore's office. Her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. She was embarrassed and ashamed that she had allowed herself to be provoked like that. Control was a virtue of excellent witches and wizards and so she resolved to reel in her temper. She knocked gently on the door. Would Dumbledore be angry? Or just disappointed? She didn't know which would be worse.

"Come in."

Dumbledore looked up from his writing, surprise immediately washing his face.

"Shouldn't you be in Potions?"

"Professor Slughorn sent me." She scowled, extending the note she had crumpled in her hand. He took it from her but did not open it.

"Why?" he simply asked, leaning back in his chair. The morning sun glinting on a few silver hairs. She looked at her feet before hearing her father's words echo about her ears. _If ye've done wrong Minerva, you admit it bravely lass and take your punishment with grace._

"I jinxed Kenneth Parkinson." She stated bluntly. She couldn't quite look him in the eye so settled for a patch of wall beside his left ear instead. Dumbledore frowned and opened Slughorn's detention slip.

"Professor Slughorn says that you cast _Avis_ and _Oppugno_ upon young Mr Parkinson wordlessly, wandless and unprovoked. Is this true?"

"Words were said." She offered up. She had no intention of elaborating.

"Oh I have no doubt," Dumbledore waved it away, "I was referring to the manner in which you cast the spells."

"Oh… well, yes, I suppose. I lost my temper." She apologised.

"That is most impressive though of course I would encourage you not to do it again."

"No, sir." She agreed.

"20 points will be taken from Gryffindor, 10 for each spell. You will serve detention with me, here, on Friday night at 8 o'clock."

"Yes, sir." She turned to leave.

"Oh and before I forget, you will find you have no need to turn in your conjuration homework." He smiled kindly and somewhat impishly. It was her turn to smile.

"Thank you but I've already finished it." She slipped out and closed the door behind her.

"Of course you have." Dumbledore chuckled to himself before returning to his letter.

…

Professor Slughorn had sighed and scolded her in a way so similar to a five year old she struggled to keep her face set in an expression of apologetic penance. Their conversation had ended with a summary of the day's lesson as homework, a further 20 points from Gryffindor and, ironically, yet another invitation to one of his dinner parties.

She spent her Thursday night in relative peace; having already summarized the entirety of Professor Slughorn's lesson plans at the beginning of the year, leisurely translating her Ancient Runes assignment beside Walter and Sterling's game of chess.

Minerva left quidditch practice early on Friday night. She knew Dumbledore had timed her detention so she would not have to miss it but she did not want to repay his generosity with tardiness. It was right on 8 when she knocked on the door to his office.

"Come in Miss McGonagall."

She sidled in nervously, she'd never been in detention before but Professor Dumbledore was as cheery as if she'd stopped by for tea.

"I thought, perhaps, you might be able to help me grade the first year's essays. Their grammar becomes punishment enough after a spell." He smiled politely over his glasses. She felt herself relax and pulled a quill and bottle of red ink from her bag. Dumbledore conjured an armchair across from himself and Minerva sat down, pulling the stack of parchment towards her. She thought she would be expected to work in silence but Professor Dumbledore seemed to be intent on helping pass the time with polite conversation. She was partway through a sentence when she stopped, scowled in frustration and scratched out an entire paragraph on the parchment in front of her and wrote quite a lengthy commentary in the margin.

"I don't recall every wording an essay so poorly," She exclaimed, "this is beyond ridiculous. _Look!_ " she thrust the paper over his desk. Dumbledore scanned the paper and chuckled lightly.

"It doesn't inspire much hope does it?" he laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair. "You were an exceptional student the moment you set foot in Hogwarts, some of your companions, however, started in a similar state as Mr Quinton Baxter here and all of them are now well on the way to becoming first rate witches and wizards. I recall Miss Jones in particular making a spectacular turn around."

"Ivy?" she asked incredulously. She had been firm friends with Ivy since second year and had always found her to be sporting competition both in the classroom and on the quidditch pitch.

"Oh yes. Young, anxious but bursting with talent. She only needed encouragement and a little confidence."

"Mr Baxter isn't in need of confidence but a clip about the ear." She criticized, dryly. "This is plain laziness."

Dumbledore smiled at her righteous disapproval.

"I would not like to be your student, Miss McGonagall. But I am inclined to agree with you on this count. I'm afraid Mr Baxter does not put much stock in the art of transfiguration."

"I can't imagine why. I've always found it to be a profoundly intriguing field of study." She muttered softly. Dumbledore watched her scratch away intently on the boy's essay.

"Have you ever considered teaching?" he asked after a moment.

"Not really. I'm afraid I don't have the patience."

Dumbledore couldn't help but smile at the tight schoolmarmish expression of frustration and discontent crinkling her brow as she resumed her marking; tutting away.

"There is no _e_ in _truly_." She muttered to herself.


	4. An Unusual Request

**1951**

The 1st of November was bright and brisk and Barrett was focusing all his energy on keeping his team focused on the blackboard beside him. Alaine and Mallory were staring in his general direction with glazed expressions; trying to shake off the remaining stupor of last night's firewhiskey. Jeremy Kent looked as if he might be sick and, when her stomach loudly interrupted Sterling's spiel, Minerva wished she had tried to eat a little more at breakfast. She repeatedly clenched and unclenched her hands into fists, twisting her fingers and flexing her gloves. The first game of every year always had her stomach in knots and her legs felt curiously heavy as if someone had filled them with lead.

"Is anyone even _listening_?" Sterling exclaimed angrily.

"Calm down mate. If we don't know it already there's no hope we'll learn it in the next 15 minutes." Porter yawned. Sterling shot a plea for help in Minerva's direction but she just shrugged noncommittedly in a ' _he's got a point'_ sort of way and returned to her pregame ritual of wringing her hands. Somewhere off to her right she could hear Madam Bluster blow her whistle. Jeremy stood up so violently he tripped on his robes and Sterling went very pale in the face but beckoned for everyone to follow him.

The doors to the pitch opened wide and the Gryffindor quidditch team squinted in the sunlight, across the pitch they could see Slytherin doing the same.

"Right then boys and girls, lets show Slytherin what Gryffindor House is made of." And he kicked off into the sunshine. Soaring over the spectators Minerva could just make out the commentator over the wind rushing through her ears. "-new captain Sterling Barrett- Porter- Wentworth- McGonagall- Jones- Smith- Mallory MacDougall Gryffindor Seeker! – Top form – Blaxley – Burns – White – Montgomery – Thwaites – Edgeworth – Bergstrom, I wouldn't want to get in the way of her."

Turning about into position Minerva caught sight of Slytherin's beaters; Clinton Edgeworth and Marge Bergstrom, the boy was tall and thick through the arms and chest and the girl had a distinctly heavyset athleticism about her that made Minerva hope she was never on the receiving end of one of her bludgers.

The crowd was silent and the teams didn't move while Madam Bluster opened the chest of playing balls. The bludgers rocketed up and out of sight in an instant closely followed by the snitch that fluttered around Marcus White's head for a moment before zooming off. Minerva had one eye fixed on Blaxley; Slytherin's head chaser, and the other on the quaffle in Madam Bluster's hands. With a swift upwards jerk the quaffle was launched directly skywards, the spectators roared and Minerva darted beneath Blaxley's outstretched arm to snatch the quaffle out from under him.

"-that girl can certainly move - Burns in hot pursuit – pass to new chaser Jones, time to see what he's made of-" Minerva broke off and arced over the Slytherin chasers to form up with Alaine, blocking off Blaxley and White from intercepting Edgar as he raced off towards the goal posts. Off to the left Edgeworth had belted a bludger at her head and she was forced to dive off course.

"-oh no, Gryffindor have broken formation. Burns coming in for the tackle-"

Alaine swooped underneath Edgar who promptly feigned fumbling the quaffle, Gregory Burns dived at the opportunity but it dropped into Alaine's waiting arms. She rolled around Burns and kept low to the ground, circling around behind the goal posts before shooting back through.

"-Smith with the quaffle looking for an opening-" Minerva urged her broom forward to breakneck speed. She heard the crowd gasp and hold their collective breath.

"What is she doing? They're going to crash!" But she ducked under Alaine's broomstick as Alaine pulled upwards; passing the quaffle as they passed each other. Travelling so quickly she was little more than a streak of scarlet Minerva pulled her arm back and threw the quaffle through the far left hoop before the Slytherin keeper even realised it had changed hands.

"McGonagall scores! What an excellent bit of flying from the Gryffindor chasers!" she grinned as the sea of red and gold exploded in cheers and whooping. "Look out Slytherin, Gryffindor means business."

But they didn't have time to celebrate. Blaxley and White had the quaffle and were tag teaming up the pitch.

"Blaxley in possession – passes to White – back to Blaxley – White again – OUCH! That had to hurt! Edgar Jones takes the quaffle –" Edgar had pulled off to one side; flying close to the spectator towers with Blaxley in hot pursuit, trying to barge him into the railings. Edgar was quick but he was small and was having trouble avoiding a collision and going out of bounds. In a desperate attempt to help; Porter swung a bludger in their direction but it flew into Burns instead, knocking him into the tower and off of his broom. The sea of silver and emerald groaned while the younger students gasped in shock, joined by a few members of concerned staff. Edgar threw a hasty pass to Alaine who missed it by a hairs breadth and it was scooped up by White instead. Minerva had shot out underneath of White when Madam Bluster blew hard on her whistle.

"Foul!" she screeched.

Blaxley and Edgar were exchanging blows from their broomsticks and Blaxley was winning. He'd locked the handle of his broom with Edgar's and Edgar just couldn't manage to untangle himself amid Blaxley's onslaught.

"Blurting from Slytherin! BLAXLEY!" the shrill whistle pierced again and Blaxley finally let go. Minerva and Alaine rushed over to the boy, his nose bleeding profusely down his robes. Alaine pulled out a handkerchief from her sleeve and he tried to mop himself up.

"-foul from Slytherin. I hope Jones is ok – no need for fists on the quidditch pitch."

"It won't stop." He said thickly. Mopping his nose with his sleeve.

"Penalty to Gryffindor."

"McGonagall!" Sterling shouted from the hoops, "Leave him and take the penalty!"

Alaine pulled her wand from her breast pocket to mend his nose and Minerva flew over to where Madam Bluster was waiting with the quaffle. Marcelus Montgomery was sneering at her from his broomstick. He would have been a handsome boy if his face wasn't always curled in contempt. She tucked the quaffle under her arm and raced forward. Montgomery was a good keeper but he favoured the right side and was consequently easy to lure into a feint to the right. Just before the hoops she swerved to her left, Montgomery took the bait as she knew he would and so she flipped around and sent the quaffle neatly through the centre ring.

"Gryffindor scores! Gryffindor lead 20-0!"

Montgomery punched the quaffle to White as he whizzed past. Alaine and Edgar zoomed over to wedge White between them in a Parkin's Pincer while Minerva climbed higher to dive on him from above but Alaine lurched forward as Marge Bergstrom's bludger hit her square between the shoulders and White broke away; racing for the goal posts. Minerva spiralled down quickly to knock the quaffle out from under his arm but he heard her coming and dodged; elbowing her in the ribs for good measure. He took his shot in a wide arcing pass but Sterling punched it away to where Edgar was waiting. But no one was paying them any attention.

The crowd had cried out unanimously and everyone stopped to watch Aubrey Thwaites and Mallory MacDougal race each other skyward. Mallory was half a length behind and Aubrey kicked out at her, forcing Mallory off course. Porter and Jeremy raced to the nearest rocketing bludger and swung in unison for the Slytherin seeker. The bludger clipped Thwaites in the shoulder and she stuttered in her search for the snitch for less than half a second. Unfortunately for her half a second was all that Mallory needed to close her fist around the struggling gold ball and Madam Bluster blew her shrill whistle again. Minerva could barely hear the whistle or the Hufflepuff commentator over the screams and whoops from the Gryffindor stands. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff joined in with enthusiasm while Slytherin booed and hissed.

The Gryffindor team flew in behind Mallory as she lapped the pitch in triumph.

…

They celebrated in the change room while they waited for the crowd to thin and by the time they stepped outside there were only stragglers left.

"I bet you 5 sickles Robert Barnes is setting up a party right now!" Porter exclaimed, positively bouncing with happiness.

"You're on!" Jeremy shook on it. Mallory giggled but Alaine groaned.

"As long as there's no more firewhiskey." She almost yelped when a pointed shadow, followed by a rather round one, crossed their path, "not that there ever was any Professor Dumbledore, Professor Slughorn." She amended, hastily stumbling over her words as the Heads of Gryffindor and Slytherin House caught up with them.

"Of course not." Dumbledore smiled over his half-moon spectacles while Slughorn puffed along in his attempt to keep up. "What would 200 underage students ever want with firewhiskey on Halloween? I would never deny Gryffindor a chance to celebrate a well-earned victory but do try to wrap it up by midnight, wont you? Some of us have class in the morning." He turned to Minerva, "Miss McGonagall may I have a word?"

She looked back at her friends being shepherded up the path by Professor Slughorn.

"I won't keep you long." He assured.

"I'm not dropping any classes." She asserted firmly but he chuckled warmly at her defensiveness.

"Not to worry. The Headmaster informed me that you wished to speak with me about something and I just had to congratulate you on that splendid piece of flying today."

"Oh." Realisation dawned. "Thank you." He clasped his hands behind his back as they strolled casually up to the castle. "I had enquired with Professor Dippet about the study of Animagi and I'm he found himself rather ill-suited for the conversation and said he would pass the matter along to you."

Professor Dumbledore made a rather odd sound of discontent.

"My memory may not be what it once was but I distinctly recall covering this particular branch of magic in your third year?" He examined her pointedly over his glasses. She quirked an eyebrow but refused to blush.

"From a theoretical point of view, yes."

"Ah." He held the door to the entrance hall open for her. "Then I trust that I don't need to remind you just how intensely complex and dangerous this kind of transfiguration is. Plenty of witches and wizards far older and far more experienced than yourself have died in the attempt." He warned.

"Perhaps they weren't good enough." She passed coolly. They could hear the low roar of overexcitement echoing through the castle from the floors above.

Dumbledore smiled, "Perhaps they weren't. You know, of course, that I am not an animagus."

"You are not on the register."

He didn't know whether to be amused or offended by her ambiguity.

"Then, in the event that I agree, how would you suggest that I could help you?"

"I was hoping you would be able to provide some insight actually, professor."

He was silent while he pondered and opened the door to his classroom. He looked up when she didn't sit down. She was eyeing the transistor radio in pieces on his desk. He'd forgotten it was there but seemed glad for the distraction.

"Ah! An ingenious piece of equipment." He swept over and prodded the pieces with his long fingers. "Do you know it?"

"Yes, sir," she looked at him as if he had ridden out of the Forbidden forest on a centaur, "It's a radio. It won't work here."

"Yes I'm well aware." He continued cheerily, bending low over the dismantled transmitter. "I'm just tinkering here and there… perhaps it will play some music one day." He clapped his hands as it recollecting himself. "But we are not here to discuss _my_ pet project."

Minerva suddenly found herself quite intrigued by her professor's 'pet project' but forged on regardless.

"There is only so much instruction in the books in the library, even in the restricted section, and it is infuriatingly vague. I'm not quite sure where to even begin."

He sat down in his chair and examined her closely.

"Why are you doing this, Miss McGonagall?" he asked, suddenly quiet, concern digging a crease between his eyebrows. She was startlingly precocious and while she had indeed seemed to climb back atop the mountain of work she was intent on punishing herself with the added strain of rare and dangerous magic seemed downright reckless. He felt exhausted just thinking about it.

"It's my favourite subject." She admitted, almost shyly, "I like to learn, sir, and I can learn no more about this from books."

Impressed as he was by her dedication, Dumbledore could not help but sigh.

"And you are set on this?"

"I am."

"Then we shall try."

 **A/N:** _This is where it gets tricky, I am experiencing a similar amount of frustration about the lack of information on Anamagi but I've done my best and I hope to get the next chapter to you soon._


	5. A Lesson in Philosophy

**A/N: First an apology. I don't remember how I got the days/dates from the last chapter but upon review I got them wrong (1** **st** **Nov 1951 was Thursday not a Sunday not a big deal I know but) I'm not going to change it but from now on the date/ days will be correct so these two chapters might not exactly match up. (I'm not being very clear. Am I confusing you? I'm sorry) Also… transfiguration is hard!**

 **December 1951**

November had passed into December in a relatively quiet affair. The senior students had adopted a permanently strained visage that did not seem to provoke the same amount of sympathy in their professors anymore who likewise looked to grow more frustrated with their charges by the hour. A few of the kindlier professors offered gentle reminders every so often to remember to eat and maintain eight hours of sleep a night (at which two seventh years had broken down into maniacal laughter) but none seemed to bother lessening their work load as the holiday's fast approached.

Gryffindor Tower was buzzing with excitement at the prospect of snow and presents but Minerva was positively ecstatic for the day she could spit out the leaves plastered to the roof of her mouth; which, by her count, was tonight.

The three hours of every Wednesday night for the past four weeks had been spend in intensely frustrating lessons with Professor Dumbledore and while they proved to be both highly-stimulating and challenging both parties found that, at least for the first few of these sessions, they parted with a short lived loathing for the other. However, full of the kind of optimism only Christmas could bring, Minerva found herself so excited for her upcoming lesson that she could not concentrate on her Herbology essay. In fact she started so violently when Augusta asked her about the difference in healing properties between rue and mistletoe berries that she upset the ink pot between them, ruining Augusta's lengthy report on medicinal plants.

"Oh for sake of Merlin's sainted trousers!" she cried. Walter did not even look up from his book and flicked his wand lazily, banishing the spilt ink back to its well and returning the parchment back to its pristine state.

"I'm sorry." She apologised lamely, scourgifying the mess from her hands.

"I'll finish it myself," Augusta pouted, pulling Minerva's notes out from under the stack of books on the table, "you're no use to me if you can't sit still. Off with you." And she buried her nose in the tight script of Minerva's notes.

Minerva piled her books into her bag and snatched her parchment out of Augusta's hands.

"Take your own notes next time." And she stuffed it in with the rest before heaving her bag over her shoulder.

She still had not told any of her friends where she disappeared to every Wednesday and while she appreciated their respect for her privacy she was a little put out that no one had even bothered to ask.

"See you later." Walter murmured absently, absorbed as he was in his copy of _Madcap Magic for Wacky Warlocks._

…

She knew she was early well before she walked into the empty classroom. _Twenty minutes early_. She realised, looking at her watch. She could probably finish her Herbology homework before Dumbledore even arrived, she thought, but she dumped her bag unceremoniously at the foot of a random desk. Herbology was the last thing she wanted to do.

She slipped her wand out from her sleeve and laid back on a set of desks and stared up at the stone ceiling with her legs dangling lazily over the edge. She drew up twisted figures of smoke in various colours to amuse herself, bending them this way and that until they formed vaguely sentient figures but soon grew bored with the colour changing wisps. She transfigured the smoke into sand and sat up as it fell to the ground. She brushed her fingers through her long hair and pulled it up into a bun before brandishing her wand again. She whirled her wand round the dusty pile like a gymnast with a ribbon, moulding the minute grains into an elaborate statuette before converting the silicon molecules within to glass; leaving behind a coarse figure that appeared outwardly frail but was quite cold and hard to touch. She hopped off the desk and knelt down in front of her creation, studying the solemn face and flowing limbs of the Greek goddess. With a breathy incantation she blew life into the face of her statue and sat back on the desk to watch as it danced and twirled down the centre aisle.

"You are becoming quite adept in animation." The sudden interjection of his voice had become so common place of late it failed to startle her anymore. She vanished her model of Persephone.

"You're late." She didn't need to check the time to know it was so. He had guilt all over his face and an apology waiting on his tongue.

"Indeed. Professor Simza can be very hard to shake off, she has a way of suggesting that I will befall misfortune upon every occasion I decline an invitation to the Three Broomsticks." He smiled pleasantly, assuring that he believed no such thing would occur.

"How did you escape?" she asked, not entirely certain she'd managed to keep her contempt for the Divination professor, or her subject, from slipping out.

"I've been known to have a certain way with words myself." He admitted, amused by her distaste, "Did you ever take Divination?"

Minerva sniffed indignantly, "The very first lesson she called me a 'hard-faced queen of misadventure' and I never returned for a second."

Dumbledore fought to stifle a laugh and managed to hide it under a polite cough.

"Then let us turn to the lesson at hand, shall we?" He perched himself on the desk across from her. "I imagine you've been crossing off the days on your calendar but I'm afraid you will have to house those mandrake leaves at least until, let us say, the end of this lesson." He saw her posture slump slightly in disappointment. "I know you've been working furiously on drafting your own enchantment but I thought perhaps tonight we should take the opportunity to reflect a little on the work you've done so far and how you might go about completing it."

Her shoulders dropped again.

"Yes, sir." She rustled around in the bottom of her bag for the twelve of so leaves of parchment she had scribbled and scratched over during their lessons and every spare moment she could find and stuck them to the blackboard in some semblance of a pattern. Seeing the pages all stuck up together she could already spot glaringly obvious mistakes she had missed without a broader context and quickly hurried for her quill but Dumbledore put out an arm to stop her.

"I'm not here to mark your work. From 8 o'clock to 11 we are peers in this classroom, now explain to me what you see as incorrect and why."

Minerva flushed slightly to be called a peer of Albus Dumbledore and it took her a moment to regain her train of thought.

Listening to her speak, however, was perhaps even more engaging than conversing with that of his contemporaries. As it was in most instances those of his generation were rooted in the past and the established 'way of doing things' and as a result he had let his own interests stagnate. Nothing new or interesting ever seemed to crop up in journal publications anymore, just dry rehashes of already established theories and half-hearted challenges to those still with a breath of conjecture left in them. Minerva knew the theories; it was evident in her methodical approach to transfiguration, but he could see a flair between the lines of her spell craft that was entirely her own. There was excitement and curiosity bubbling beneath the surface that almost threatened to challenge the laws of transfiguration; a hair's breadth away from becoming dangerous. She was new and fresh and the longer he listened the more he could feel the study of transfiguration begin to excite him again.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your inclusion of human consciousness," he frowned when she was finished, "I would imagine it would be inferred with intent, why include it in the body of the spell?"

Most students, most accomplished witches and wizards, would falter when their work was called into question and he was pleasantly surprised when, instead of shrinking, she lit up and began pacing the foot of the board, gesturing animatedly at her linking equations.

"At first I thought so too but the more I _thought_ about it the more I was convinced that to omit it would be an error." She paused and took a deep breath. "You explained the enchantment as a kind of 'self-charm' and a kind of 'self-transfiguration'; we know that during interspecies transfiguration the subject does not retain its core functions, if you were to transfigure me into a dog I very much doubt I'd know how to get back to Gryffindor Tower or remember that my name is Minerva despite the fact that a dog would be able to trace back a scent to the seventh floor and has the ability to associate a word as itself. Therefore a kind of _charm_ would be required to maintain the subject's core function _despite_ transfiguration. _Cogito ergo sum;_ I think therefore I am. The human preoccupation with self-consciousness is so ingrained _in_ consciousness, so unique of the human condition it could be a grievous mistake to discard it from the equation… I'm not sure I'm adequately explaining myself…" she confessed suddenly.

"Most eloquently, though a little rapidly, give an old man a moment to catch up." His eyes sparkled and she accepted his subtle offer and took a moment to reshuffle her thoughts.

"Though unproven it is considered that only human beings are in the possession of self-awareness, of consciousness; if you were to put a cat in front of a mirror it would not recognise itself but see another cat. If it is indeed true then how would I exclude that which makes me human from an enchantment to retain the human functions of my own brain?" she summarised a beat more slowly.

In preparation for these lessons they had touched on subjects of human transfiguration that went even beyond his seventh year NEWT class and Minerva soon proved that she was no stranger to these concepts and had even experimented cautiously in the free time she somehow managed to find amid her harrowing schedule. Her intelligence and the deep abstract thought she exuded forced the cobwebs from his knowledge of theoretical transfiguration as she put him through his paces.

He pondered her assertion. The finer details of animagi enchantments were highly personal and unique to the caster, intense personal insight was what made this brand of magic possible and, at the same time, so temperamental. If the inclusion of the fragility of the human psyche was so significant to her then it did indeed make perfect sense to include it though, he noted, it would have to be carefully formulated.

"And what is it, other than self-awareness, which makes you human Minerva? Or, to go beyond that, what are you?"

Long into the night they debated the complexity of the human condition and all its many triumphs and failings. They discussed in intimate detail the practicality and potential of theoretical transfiguration. They broke briefly when Dumbledore mentioned she could spit out the mandrake leaves and arranged a small tea tray from a pair of very obliging house elves but polite conversation was soon taken over with the nature of progress, the position and role of politics and eventually the place of the individual within broader society and how society shapes the individual until their intellectual conversation was interrupted by a long yawn.

Over the course of the four hours Albus had moved from his perch on the corner of the desk to one of the many students chairs, to his padded teacher's chair and back again until he was leaning back in balanced equilibrium on the rear two legs between two rows of tables; twirling the tip of his beard around his finger absentmindedly. He set himself down back on all four legs of his chair and pulled his curious pocket watch from one of his many pockets. It was well past curfew even for a prefect.

He crossed over to where Minerva had sank down against the wall and offered a hand to help her up.

"I think we've run a little over time."

She yawned again, stifling the sound behind the back of her hand, her eyes had gone red and a little puffy from fatigue.

"What time is it?"

"A little after two, time does fly under stimulating conversation." He picked up her bag and escorted her back to Gryffindor Tower.

"I didn't even realise..." They walked in silence up the marble stairs, her head filled with thoughts of her warm bed, heavy blankets and soft pillows and his; preoccupied with trying to recall the last time he had enjoyed an evening of academic banter half as much as he had tonight. He found it very strange indeed that a few hours with a seventeen year old girl surpassed half a century of dusty conversation with acclaimed warlocks. Nicholas was of course an exception and even, he conceded, Gellert to some extent but here; walking half asleep beside him was, in all appearances, a perfectly ordinary young witch who he was sure would one day outstrip him in tranfigurative magic.

Dumbledore rapped lightly on the Fat Lady's frame to wake the dozing portrait, "Plum pudding."

The Fat Lady started and knocked over a box of sugared violets, "Minerva McGonagall wandering the castle at this hour!" she scolded, sleepily.

"Remedial transfiguration." Dumbledore placated calmly, handing over Minerva's bag.

The Fat Lady scoffed, "That will be the day!", but the portrait swung forward.

"Good night, professor."

"Good night, Minerva."


	6. Boys and Banter

**Boys and Banter.**

 _ **December 19, 1951.**_

Snow had begun to fall steadily over the grounds of Hogwarts. Off in the distance the gamekeepers hut was reminiscent of an iced gingerbread house upon a pretty blanket of marzipan and even the Forbidden Forest looked to be a scene from a Christmas card. The lights of the castle glittered prettily behind their frozen windows; glazed with ice and frost.

High in Gryffindor Tower four 6th year girls were packing their things, ready to go home for the holidays, comfortable in the warmth of the fires waging battle with the cold outside.

"- I did _try_ to buy a bottle of Firewhiskey for my father but Mr Tottle just refused point blank to sell it to me! What am I to do now?" Ainslie complained loudly to Augusta despite her head being buried under her bed in search for a missing stocking. "Get him… _socks_?" she exclaimed, clambering out with the rogue stocking clutched in her hand, her face nearly as red as her hair. Minerva's own ears flamed. Her own father's present of socks was neatly wrapped and safely packed in her trunk. She's even embroidered his initials along the cuff.

"You should have gone to the Hog's Head." Augusta suggested offhandedly, intent on cramming a set of dress robes in her trunk. Vera shrieked and looked up from her parchment.

"The Hog's Head?" she raised herself up off of her front and sat cross legged on top of the covers. "Don't be silly. No self-respecting person goes into the _Hog's Head_ , not even for Firewhiskey. The place reeks of a farm yard and that bar man… I've never seen anyone odder."

"How would you know?" Minerva asked dryly, "I thought self-respecting witches did not go to the Hog's Head." She did not need to look up to know Vera had turned a delicate shade of pink. "Firewhiskey is only good for giving one a headache, Ainslie… Didn't you say your father is a writer?"

"Yes… well he tries to be."

All three girls stopped to watch as she rummaged around in her school bag and pulled out an old quill and a pot of ink.

Minerva prodded the quill with her pale wand and the feather shivered on the bedside table as it straightened itself before quivering gently a few inches over the tabletop in anticipation. She frowned briefly before muttering a long string of words under her breath. As they watched the ink pot drained slowly and the quill touched back down heavily. With a deft flick of her wrist a sheaf of parchment whipped out of her bag and twisted itself into a wooden box. Minerva placed the black quill in the box she'd made, pulled the tartan ribbon from the end of her braid and wrapped it around in a large bow before tapping the material lightly and watched it fade to a sleek, uniform red.

She tucked away her empty ink bottle and handed the slender box to Ainslie.

"It's imbued with ink. It will never run out." she explained hurriedly, "… If I did it right." She added feeling her cheeks grow hot under the attention she had just drawn to herself.

"Thank you, Minerva." Ainslie said with an awed gratitude that made Minerva uncomfortable. She was saved from having to respond by Vera's interruption.

"Minerva, how do you spell Amortentia? Is there a 'u' in it?"

"No, Vera, there is not 'u'." she sighed, "Why do you want to know? You failed your potions OWL." She regretted her words immediately as Vera raised an eyebrow in such a way that said she would pay for it later.

"No reason." She hummed coolly, dipping her head over her parchment once more.

She did not dislike Vera but she never ventured out of her way to engage in conversation with her. Vera was wonderfully pretty and insufferably silly. She had large, brown doe eyes framed with long lashes and long hair the same colour as Minerva's but where Minerva's hair was curly, verging on untamed, Vera's was sleek and seemed to fall in neat waves on its own accord. She struck Minerva as the kind of person who had once been rather clever but had abandoned intelligence for a life of being handed opportunities for her appearance. She never considered herself vain or particularly conscious of herself but Vera's presence and the way she giggled with Ainslie had a way of making her feel intensely self-conscious. As if they shared a private joke at her expense.

"What are you writing?" Ainslie asked, peering past Vera's curtains but Vera covered her note with her arms.

"Nothing."

This was very odd. Ainslie and Vera could often be found in remote corners of the library giggling and taking turns in scribbling on scraps of paper. They did not keep secrets from each other. Vera must have realised how strange her behaviour looked and recovered remarkably quickly.

"I'm writing a letter to Aster."

"Why?"

Vera shot Ainslie a look that clearly told her to shut up.

"I'm breaking it off with him."

"What! Why?" Ainslie exclaimed, flabbergast.

"He's far too bookish." Vera explained, her eyes fixed on her secret 'break up' letter, "he never spends any time with me. ' _Oh I can't Vera… I have quidditch practice… I have potions homework'_ there's always something! Marcus Kettleburn keeps asking to take me to Madam Puddifoot's perhaps I'll take him up on his offer."

"Marcus Kettleburn!" Ainslie cried.

"He's a dull as old parchment!" Augusta added, throwing her copy of Advanced Transfiguration in her trunk with such force it threatened to topple off of the bed. This was obviously the wrong thing to say. Ainslie switched her glare quickly from Vera to Augusta and Minerva was very glad she had kept quiet.

"He is not!" she defended hotly, bright patches appearing in her cheeks.

"No… you're right." Augusta back peddled, "He's just very…" but she could not seem to find a single quality in poor Marcus that made him more appealing to her.

"I'm not the one dating Walter Longbottom!" she snapped back.

It was Augusta's turn to blush and she busied herself by jamming a set of scales alongside her textbooks.

"Vera you can't go with Marcus." Ainslie huffed.

"Oh like I would anyway." Vera snapped, "If I had to have a Kettleburn I'd much prefer _Professor_ Kettleburn."

Augusta's blush deepened and Minerva went pale but Ainslie laughed.

It was no secret to anyone that Vera's virtue often ran rampant about the castle but Minerva had no desire to be versed in the intimate details of her escapades. Fornicating was prohibited at Hogwarts and so her position as prefect spared her the worst of it. She did not want to hear anything that would force her to report a classmate or a professor to the Headmaster.

"Ha!" Ainslie shrieked. "We both know it's not Professor _Kettleburn_ you'd have."

Augusta looked on the verge of fainting. Minerva cast a silencing charm on the door as their voices continued to rise and closed her eyes; praying that they would remember she was in the room. This sounded like a very private conversation.

"'Spectacles make him look so distinguished', 'He's just so passionate about his work. He's been places, he's _done_ things.' You're so transparent, Vera."

Minerva could feel a cold, heavy weight growing in the pit of her belly.

"'Oh I wish I could have kept on with Transfiguration-'"

Augusta cleared her throat loudly. Minerva could have kissed her.

"Minerva don't you have a thing?" she asked, tapping the back of her wrist.

Minerva clapped her hand over her mouth as she heard the clock tower chime 8 o'clock off in the distance.

"I'll walk down with you." She slammed the lid of her trunk shut as Minerva scrambled for her wand and the wad of parchment under her pillow.

"What _thing_?" Vera asked scornfully but neither girl answered as Minerva wrenched the door open and they both clattered down the stairs.

"Oh no. Oh no. I'm going to be late! I'm already late. I can't believe this!"

"Minerva!" Augusta grabbed her arm as she started through the portrait hole.

"Augusta-"

"I know. I know, late, but Walter told me he overheard Malcolm talking about replacing all the bathroom handles with biting doorknobs…"

Her whole body slumped from its usual ramrod posture.

"Oh for the love of all that is good on God's green earth!" she shouted so loudly a boy beside the fire jumped and yelped as he scorched his hand in the flames.

"Just thought you'd want to know…" and Augusta pushed her through the portrait hole.

Practically falling out the other side Minerva ignored the Fat Lady's jibes and sprinted down the corridor. No. She would not let her brother ruin tonight because tonight was the night she would become an animagus.


	7. The Rogue, the Wretched and the Reckless

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has stayed with me so far. I hope you are still enjoying yourselves. I'd just like to put in a special mention to** _stormtrooper1_ _ **,**_ _dsky_ _ **,**_ _GONEiam_ **and** _DeansgirlSN_ **. You guys have no idea how valued your encouragement is. Thank you.**

 **The Rogue, the Wretched and the Reckless**

 _ **December 19**_ _ **th**_ _ **1951**_

Sprinting at top speed down the seventh floor corridor Minerva failed to notice the little man with a lurid orange bowtie hovering over the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy until she had crashed into the suit of armour he had thrust into her path. With a cry she somersaulted over the breastplate and, throwing out her arms to break her fall, skidded along the carpet.

The poltergeist cackled madly. Minerva groaned. Her nose full of the smell of musty carpet and the wind knocked out of her. Cursing quietly she pulled herself gingerly to her feet; rubbing her wrist.

"Did you have a nice _TRIP_!" he taunted clutching his side, the bells of his hat jingling.

"Peeves!"

But Peeves hooted wildly, pulling his hair and kicking out his feet.

"And an ickle prefect!" he exclaimed, overjoyed at his fortuitous catch. "What fun!"

"Peeves-" but whatever threat she was about to hurl was lost as Peeves took aim with what looked suspiciously like one of professor Simza's crystal balls.

"Opprimo!" she cried without thinking.

Peeves screeched in surprise as he was knocked against the wall and held in place as if by invisible hands. Several times he flashed in and out of sight as if hoping becoming invisible would free him but Minerva's spell held.

"Not fair." He croaked, "Poor Peevsie has no wand."

"Heaven help us if you did." She muttered, looking about for her own wand, "What are you doing here, Peeves?"

"Nothing your perfectness." He simpered though, with his impish smile, was not convincing.

"I'd hate to have to fetch the Baron…"

The red fury in his face seemed to melt away at the mention of the Bloody Baron and he suddenly looked more a ghost than poltergeist. But from the corner of her eye she caught sight of an all too familiar blonde head seemingly melt out of solid stone.

"MALCOLM McGONAGALL!" she bellowed.

Stunned, her concentration slipped and Peeves broke free from her enchantment. He dropped his sack full of crystals and whizzed down the corridor like a balloon with the air let out. The blonde boy stopped dead in his tracks, one foot still in the air. He spun round and fixed a roguish grin on his round face.

"Aww come off it. Walter said you weren't on duty tonight!" he grinned even more broadly, mischief dancing unrestrained across his features. He was tall for his age with large eyes the same shade of green as his sisters but it was there that their resemblance ended.

Malcolm had sandy coloured hair like their mother with her delicate nose and happy, upturned mouth to match. Where Minerva and Robert were thin and lanky, Malcolm was broad shouldered and muscled. He was easy to rouse in anger and had an intense talent for making trouble but he was kind where Minerva was stern and, though he frustrated her immensely (and seemed to take great delight in doing so) and while she would never admit to it; she was deeply fond and even a little proud of her youngest brother.

"What are you doing out here?" she demanded, finally spotting her wand on a patch of worn carpet and quickly restoring the suit of armour back to its place with a measured wave of her wand.

"Nothing." He answered quickly, stuffing his hand and a blood stained handkerchief deep in his pocket, but his attention snapped to a small piece of folded parchment between them. Minerva's heart skipped a beat and thudded loudly under her ribcage.

"What is-" but before he could even take a step for it,

"Accio!" and it soared neatly into her outstretched hand.

Malcolm's grin dropped only slightly but his tone became much more inquisitive, "if you're not doing prefect things… then why are you out?" he asked airily, rocking backwards and forwards on his feet. Skilled as he was at making mischief Malcolm was also unfailingly swift at spotting when someone was doing something they shouldn't be. While nothing Minerva was doing would land her in trouble she did not have the time or desire to explain to Malcolm that she met up with Professor Dumbledore on a Wednesday and what she did there with him not the mention that he would delight in spreading salacious rumours if he was ever given the chance and so she swallowed her pride and lied.

"Nothing." She replied, jamming the parchment into the pocket of her trousers, her voice just a touch too high and airy to be casual.

He quirked an eyebrow at her, clearly unconvinced but seemed devilishly amused at his sister's secrecy…

"Nothing eh? Well then… I guess I never saw you… and _you_ never saw me?" he tried.

Her mouth pursed in such a tortured, Minerva-ish way that Malcolm let out a bark of laughter.

"Oh… very well" she finally conceded. Malcolm began to walk away from her slowly, backwards with his hands still behind his back.

"But so help me, Malcolm if I hear about a single doorknob with teeth!" she warned. He grinned even more broadly.

"I'll see you on the train." He winked and disappeared around the corner.

…

"I'm sorry I'm late, Professor!" she gasped when she burst through the door five minutes later. Dumbledore raised himself up from his chair and surveyed her warmly over his spectacles.

"Not to worry not to-" but his smile faltered, "What have you done to yourself, Minerva?"

Minerva glanced down at her wrist. It had started to pain her quite a lot and she realised she was gripping it very tightly.

"Oh," she let go and winced as her whole arm throbbed, "I ran afoul of Peeves on my way here."

Dumbledore shook back the sleeve of his robes to free his hand.

"May I?" he asked quietly, indicating for her arm. Somewhat surprised she offered up her hand and he took it very tenderly into his grip. He examined the swollen joint critically, carefully. Turning it this way and that. She was not quite sure where to look. She watched his hands for a moment; fluttering gently over her skin, then shifted her gaze to his face but, finding it very close to her own, averted her eyes back down. His hands were soft. And warm. The first finger of his right hand had a smudge of ink on. He must have been writing, she thought then flushed slightly for a reason she was not quite certain of.

Without looking up he removed his wand from a fold in his robes and placed the tip at her aching wrist.

She gasped as her whole arm flooded with heat and then chilled as quickly as if she'd plunged it in the snow outside.

"I'm sorry." He said quickly, jerking away his hands.

"No." she amended hastily, "You didn't hurt me, I just… it was broken?" she asked rolling her wrist experimentally. It bent and moved without any difficulty.

"Indeed." Dumbledore pocketed his wand.

"Huh… I've never broken a bone before." Satisfied that her arm was as good as it had ever been she extracted her notes from her pocket.

"Not in all your years racing about the quidditch pitch?" he asked, smiling once more.

"Not once." She smoothed the crumpled parchment on the desk and stepped back for his inspection.

Albus pushed back his sleeves and traced the lines of her immaculate hand with his fingertips.

"I've checked and double checked," she murmured as he scrutinised her work. "All my equations are flawless." He nodded in agreement. "My incantations are sound." He hummed what sounded like a positive noise but she shifted her weight back and forth anxiously nonetheless.

"I'd like to try…" he stiffened slightly as she spoke but his tone was pleasant when he looked up.

"Yes, I thought you might." He straightened up and clasped his hands behind his back. His beard twitched slightly as he examined her closely over his spectacles.

"You… You'll let me." She was taken aback. She had thought, hesitant as he had been through the entire course of their work together, Dumbledore would forestall her until at least after Christmas.

"My dear, would I ever had been able to stop you?" he was smiling now and she felt her own face split in glee.

"I am sure you could if you tried hard enough, Albus." It still felt strange using his first name and she avoided it when she could. It felt far too familiar.

"Ah but then you would proceed without me and that, Minerva, I simply could not abide." He gave her a funny little smile that struck her somewhere in the stomach and she averted her gaze as her cheeks flushed again.

She shook herself, hoping it would simply look as if she were preparing herself. She drew her wand, straightened her spine and dropped her shoulders. Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, his eyes never left hers. He looked tense, like a coiled spring; ready to react at a moment's notice.

Her heart was hammering. She did not need her notes, she'd never memorised anything more completely in her life, but she could not dispel the fluttering in the depths of her belly and she was at a complete loss as to whether it was nerves or not.

Clutching her wand tight in her hand she started her spell with an uncharacteristic jerk. Albus watched her wand cut through the air in tight, elaborate patterns. Her movements were rehearsed and stiff and he could see her eyes following in the wake of her wand, her lips were twitching but no sound came forth.

Minerva's arm lowered gently back to her side. She was sure neither of them drew breath. The air between them was tense and heavy. She exhaled slowly. She did not feel any different. She was not sure if she should. Minerva glanced over to Albus; his eyes had narrowed but he gave no indication she should stop.

She swallowed past the bump in her throat and closed her eyes.

 _Concentrate. Concentrate. Concentrate on what? I must look such a fool. Come on._

Desperately she willed something, anything to happen.

 _What if I did something wrong? What if it didn't work?_

She squeezed her eyes tighter and held her breath; face red with effort and then…

She felt herself plummeting through darkness and gasped in surprise but before she could draw in another breath she felt her chest being compressed as if she were being squeezed through a very tight rubber tube. Her head felt as if it might burst. There was no air in this void of nothingness. Nothing to fill up her lungs. Every muscle, every ligament strained and threatened to pull away from her bones. The panic that was flooding her brain was dissipating with light-headedness. There were bursts of light behind her eyes and then… nothing.

…

The light was blinding.

Minerva was first aware of the immensely blue eyes, dark with concern, mere centimetres above her face. Half an instant later she recognised that the floor was beneath her and she was very cold. But something was wrong. She couldn't breathe.

The blue gaze swam dizzily and she closed her eyes, willing it to stop.

"Minerva! Minerva! Can you hear me?"

The voice was fuzzy… and drifting further and further away…

She opened her mouth to answer but it was so much easier to let the void sweep her away.

"Minerva!"

A distant whisper.

Something was shaking her but it barely registered…

It was much easier to fall asleep…


	8. Breathe

**Breathe.**

 _ **December 23**_ _ **rd**_ _ **1951**_

Albus jolted awake without really knowing what it was that had woken him. The white light of morning sparkled off the fresh dusting of snow outside and glared against his spectacles.

The dormitory was bitterly cold.

He shifted his weight gingerly in his chair and groaned. He was not quite sure when his back had started aching or the last time he had felt sensation in his backside but his careful readjustment of his limbs had brought the limp, sleeping figure of his favourite student back into view and he sighed again as the weight of his discomfort only grew under the added burden of his guilt.

His head felt as if it might just roll off of his shoulders but he couldn't bring himself to move. If he moved, if he left, just for one hour to sleep in the comfort of his own bed, to eat, to sit in any other chair the castle had to offer, something awful would happen in his absence to punish his serious lack of judgment. He knew it would… It always did.

She had been trying too hard. She had over-complicated herself.

He should have stopped her.

"Why didn't I stop her?" he groaned into his hands, pushing his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

He shifted his weight in his chair and heard the wood groan.

But there it was again…

"Minerva?" he whispered hoarsely and dragged his chair a little closer to the side of her bed.

It came again. He saw her lips move. He was sure of it.

"Minerva?"

"…Al…bus?" it was desperately faint.

His chest tightened, "Min-"

But from somewhere behind him the door of the matron's office slammed and the familiar clip-clopping, jingling gait of Madam Doufant and her keys made him sit up a little straighter and clear the fatigue from his throat.

"Miss McGonagall?" he repeated, decidedly more professional.

Madam Doufant swept past Dumbledore roughly without so much as glancing at him and bent over Minerva, tying up her apron as she went. She shot a filthy look at Dumbledore before laying the back of her hand across her patient's forehead. Minerva moaned weakly in protest. Her eyes fluttered open and narrowed immediately in the matron's direction. Amid the immense relief that had washed over him, he was impressed (and a little amused) that within moments of regaining consciousness she managed to summon up at least some familiar disdain at being fussed over.

"Miss McGonagall?" he tried again.

"Professor?" she asked, her voice was hoarse from disuse but Albus could discern that faint waspish note he had grown so fon- no, he stopped himself from thinking it… accustomed to.

She tried to sit up but Madam Doufant's cold hands held her firmly in her pillows.

"No." she warned, "You stay down."

Minerva conceded grudgingly and let her pour out a measure of potion that seemed to be smoking as it hit the goblet. She tried to spy a glimpse at her company from beneath Madam Doufant's arm but she could only just catch the hem of Dumbledore's robes. Before she could so much as shift in her pillows Madam Doufant thrust the silver goblet into her hands.

"Drink."

She looked into her cup and wrinkled her nose.

"Drink." Madam Doufant repeated impatiently.

"I'm not even awake ye-"

"Drink."

The school healer was a fierce woman with a deceptively kind, heart-shaped face and not renowned for her bedside manner. She had stunning wine red hair and a selectively proficient grasp of English that seemed to depend entirely on the difficulty of her patient.

Minerva eyed the greyish two-toned potion swirling in her cup and, trying not to taste it, gulped it down as fast as she could. She squeezed her eyes shut against the burning in her throat, covered her mouth and coughed quietly. She tried to hand the goblet back to the matron but Madam Doufant had swept around her bed to stand behind the weary figure of Professor Dumbledore.

How long had he been sitting there? How long had she been asleep?

Madam Doufant was glaring at the back of Professor Dumbledore's head with such intensity that Minerva was sure she would find a scorch mark there. Her arms were folded tight across her chest and her face was full of French indignation.

"Three days, Dumbledore! Three!" she growled, her accent thick.

"I'm well aware how long it has been Alexandrine."

He sat like a man who had not been comfortable in a long time, though it was small wonder, the hospital wing was not famous for its chairs. His voice was hoarse and strained and Minerva saw the terrible, dark shadows that had settled under his eyes. Had he stayed the entire time?

Madam Doufant huffed angrily.

She looked as if she were about to cuff him behind the ear and Dumbledore, quivering like a schoolboy about to be caned, bore a pained, resigned expression that suggested he deserved every blow he was about to receive.

"Not aware enough!" she snapped, leant past him and she snatched the goblet from the bedside table before stalking back to her office, slamming the door behind her.

Dumbledore did not move for a few moments.

Minerva, making sure that the matron was indeed gone, sat up a little against her pillows.

"Was that my fault?"

Dumbledore seemed to take a moment to gather himself before answering.

"No, Minerva. It was mine."

"What happened? Did she say _three_ days? Did I change? What was I?" the questions tumbled out of her mouth so quickly she found herself lying down again trying to breathe through the black again.

Old and aching joints forgotten, Dumbledore was on his feet in an instant.

Minerva could hear his voice in the distance but it was not slipping away. Not this time. It was a tether. Slow and calm. A lifeline.

"-and easy. In… and out… Just breathe, Minerva… please breathe."

 _His eyes are so blue._ She thought as the world swam back into place. Dumbledore was standing over her again, one hand smoothing her hair, the other gripping her own as if he were afraid to let it go.

"I am… breathing…" she managed as it came easier, "perhaps just… one question… at a time." and her lips twitched into a smile.

He was very close. Something not lost on Dumbledore. He almost jerked his hands away and retreated to the safety of his chair again.

She closed her eyes. Her cheeks felt very warm. After several long breaths she opened them again.

"Surely you can conjure something more comfortable for yourself." She did not try to sit up this time but nodded in his general direction.

Dumbledore settled himself in more firmly, "Call it penance."

"What did happen, Albus?"

Dumbledore studied his hands for several seconds before answering.

"Did you mean to try to disapparate?"

She tried to remember but it was all just a fog of pain, of muscles ripping and gasping for breath that would not come.

"No." she concluded, "Why?"

"Because," he sat forward, "not only did your spell work fail to protect you from, or enable you to successfully complete, a transformation… but I believe that you, inadvertently, tried to disapparate. And I say inadvertently because I believe you managed to splinch yourself which would have been terrible enough but you also attempted to disapparate within Hogwarts…"

Minerva breathed deep, grateful to be able to do so again.

"That was unfortunate."

Dumbledore's eyes bulged.

" _Unfortunate!_ You could have died! You _should_ have died!"

"But I didn't." and she smiled triumphantly.

"No… you have merely been unconscious for three days teetering upon the brink of being sent to St. Mungo's, frightened your friends, terrified your family and, scared me half to death! Minerva…"

A long silence passed between them. A weight that had nothing to do with her injuries lay heavy on her chest.

Dumbledore looked as if he might cry.

No, she amended herself, he was just very tired.

"I should inform the Headmaster that you are awake, is there anything I can get you? I know Miss Jones has been anxious for you to wake up." He stood up somewhat stiffly.

"Ivy is here?" she could not keep the surprise from her voice.

"She is." Dumbledore confirmed gently.

"Can I see her?"

"Of course you may." He turned to leave but hesitated, "If it is agreeable, I would like to check in on you from time to time, with your permission of course."

Minerva smiled.

It was a warm smile that brought colour to her face and softened the depths of those hard, green eyes. For a second, just one, he forgot where he was and who he was, who she was, and stared as she stared back… before she blinked and broke the spell.

"I'd like that."

Dumbledore nodded absently and made his way to the door. His hand was on the handle when-

"Albus?" She called across the space, "What was I?"

He looked back over his shoulder, "It is hard to say… Something small, perhaps a mountain hare… or a wildcat but I can't be sure."

There was that smile again.

"You'll have to pay closer attention next time."

...

"Why would you not tell me? _Me_! You're _best_ friend! Does Augusta know? An animagus? Merlin's beard, Minerva! What were you thinking?" Ivy had been ranting for at least ten minutes now and Minerva had zoned out of the rather one-sided conversation after about two and turned her focus to the parchment Ivy had been so gracious to bring her.

"-I mean honestly… are you even listening?"

"No."

"Who are you writing to?" she stopped her pacing.

"Mother. Well… everyone but… mainly mother. Can you take this to the Owlery when I've finished, I really need an answer by tomorrow."

Ivy sat down at Minerva's feet and tried to peek over her knees.

"What are you writing?"

"Why are you staying at Hogwarts for Christmas?"

The silence that followed was enough to make her lift her gaze from her writing. Ivy tossed her long hair over her shoulder indignantly but did not answer.

"You told me you were going home."

"I changed my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

There was only the scratching of Minerva's quill.

"…was Professor Dumbledore here the whole time? Every time I came to see you he was here, he looked wretched."

"I wouldn't know. I was unconscious." She scrawled her name and her love at the bottom of the parchment and rolled up her letter, "Oh Ivy please don't look at me like that."

Ivy had planted a coy, suspicious smile on her face and was looking at her expectantly.

"If I want foolishness I go to Augusta. You are supposed to be the sensible one…oh no…" and realisation dawned, "Sterling is staying for Christmas… you are staying over the holidays because Sterling is. Ivy Jones!"

Ivy sniffed huffily and smoothed a non-existent crease in her jumper.

"We happen to be staying for the same reason."

"Each other." Minerva grumbled quietly. "If you like him so much why don't you just ask him to go on a date with you and stop prancing around each other in the corridors?"

Ivy looked scandalised.

"That's not how it works! I'm the girl! He's a hot shot quidditch player-,"

"You're a hot shot quidditch player." But Ivy was ranting again.

"-I'm supposed to ask for help with my homework-"

"You'll fail." She reached for a copy of _Transfiguration Today_.

"-he constantly has a pack of beautiful girls following him, Minerva. He's always talking to you…"

Minerva examined her friend over her magazine; Ivy looked genuinely distraught, her whole body was tense, blue eyes wide; begging for reassurance. Minerva sighed.

"You are the most beautiful girl in our year, Ivy." She said softly, and Ivy relaxed immediately. Minerva never lied, especially for such a placating purpose.

"Sterling talks to me all the time because I'm on his quidditch team. And he's best friends with Walter who happens to be constantly glued to my other best friend. So yes, we talk. We're friends. So please don't ever bring it up again. It's too silly for words. And so what if you're the _girl_? Augusta asked Walter out."

"Yes but Augusta is… bossy."

"She is proactive." Minerva amended. Ivy raised her pale eyebrows.

"… and bossy." She conceded with a smirk and both girls laughed.

But the laughter was lost when Minerva clutched her side and Ivy sobered immediately.

"Minerva are you alright? Shall I fetch the nurse?"

Eyes watering, she shook her head.

"I'm fine." She gasped but Ivy was on her feet looking as if she were about to bolt, "Honestly. I'm fine." She tried again, fighting to level her voice and with what seemed like tremendous effort she pulled her hand away and waved it at the blonde girl.

"See? Fine."

" _Animagus_." She hissed, scathingly, "You are the stupidest person I know Minerva McGonagall."


	9. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

_**December 24**_ _ **th**_ _ **1951**_

Professor Dumbledore had kept true to his word. It was not long after Ivy had left for lunch the previous day that Dumbledore had returned with a tray of sandwiches, sugar mice and chess, and had stayed until Madam Doufant had shooed him out before dinner.

Earlier this morning he had returned a little after breakfast to resume their game and more than once Minerva had caught herself thinking how perfectly easy it was to speak with him, conversation so natural and fulfilling and with silences so devoid of awkwardness. It was as if they did it every day and had done for years.

She reached across the board and took his knight with the rook he had overlooked.

"Madam Doufant is going to let you attend Christmas lunch tomorrow, albeit grudgingly." He said while his eyes scanned the chess board closely.

"Thank goodness for that. I thought I might go mad if I had to stay here."

"You are a very difficult person to say 'no' to, especially if you have been half as insistent as the Headmaster claims."

Minerva tucked her hair behind her ear but refused to meet his gaze.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about." She said coolly.

Dumbledore smirked.

"I'm sure."

She had improved dramatically since the day before. She was sitting, cross-legged on top of the covers, without aid of her pillows and could speak and laugh freely without fear of pain or collapse. She had changed from the hospital's night gown into her own clothes and the dark green of her knitted jumper lent far more colour to her face than the stark white. In fact, she looked as healthy as could be, the only indication otherwise was any attempt to take more than a few steps from her bed.

Madam Doufant came every two hours to assist Minerva in a turn about the room. She started off well enough, if a little gingerly, but by the time she had reached the opposite side of the dormitory she was clinging to the matron's arm and moving at a glacial pace. Focused as she was on her patient Madam Doufant still managed to shoot a withering glare at Dumbledore at least twice and, glancing at the clock, he should be preparing himself for another round.

"What do teachers do in their free time?" Minerva asked sincerely, "Surely you aren't constantly plagued by injured students to keep company, you must have hobbies and interests or interesting hobbies?"

"Oh yes, lets see…Professor Beery fancies himself and amateur of the stage as we all rather unfortunately discovered. Professor Slughorn enjoys exercising his social circle and reaping the rewards… Headmaster Dippet makes model ships inside old butterbeer bottles and I have the most interesting pastime of all."

"Oh?" as Albus ordered his king to retreat.

"I tinker with muggle radios." He said such mock seriousness that Minerva could not help but burst out laughing and, unable to keep a straight face, Albus' quiet chuckle soon joined in.

"Bon Dieu… you!" the matron's voice rang through the dormitory and Dumbledore flinched, "Yes. You." She barked, rapping him over the shoulders when she was close enough. "Up. Get up. A boy has lost his finger on the fourth floor… une poignée de porte avec des dents… She must walk."

Dumbledore and Minerva stared at her blankly. The frazzled woman snapped her fingers beneath Dumbledore's nose.

"Now! Try to not kill her." And she hurried out the doors with her wand in her hand, "Cet endroit…" they heard her curse as she stormed away.

"Did she say someone had lost a finger?" Minerva asked cautiously, pushing the chess pieces away.

"That is what I heard." Dumbledore confirmed, somewhat stunned as he offered his hands to help her up.

" _Malcolm_." She growled as she touched her feet to the floor.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing," she looped her arm around his and clung tight with the other as he helped her shuffle around the room, "just… put my brother in detention the moment he gets off the train."

"Am I safe in assuming which brother it is you are talking about?"

Minerva laughed wryly.

"Of course. I don't believe Robert has ever been in trouble a day in his life."

"I was only speaking to the Headmaster yesterday about Robert."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it would seem that he hopes to spend his 6th year on exchange at Beauxbatons Academy in France, apparently they have an excellent introductory Healing program."

"Mmm… he has been learning French via correspondence and practising with Madam Doufant when she isn't too busy. I tried to learn with him but I just couldn't keep up with everything."

"Has he really? That's remarkable, it must be terribly difficult."

"It is but Robert has always been much smarter than me."

"Do you think he could do it?"

"He's only in his fourth year. He hasn't even sat his OWLs yet, he might change his mind but I don't think he will. He's stubborn."

"A stubborn McGonagall? I've never heard of such a thing." He teased and, unable to hit him, Minerva leant into him playfully.

"If anyone can do it, Robert can."

"If I've learnt anything, it is that the McGonagall's can do anything they set their minds to." He gestured for her to lift her gaze from the ground. "Look here, you've made it back already."

Sure enough, Minerva was standing at the foot of her bed again.

"Well I do have to walk all the way downstairs tomorrow." She reasoned.

…

Dumbledore awoke to an insistent tugging on his sleeve. He jerked violently and righted his spectacles to better see what it was that had woken him.

Two very large, very round eyes were staring up at him from somewhere beside his knee, glowing in the faint firelight.

"Mister Dumbledore, sir, he is falling asleep in his chair again." The house elf squeaked, nervously.

"He is indeed." He rumbled, drowsily and from the corner Fawkes hummed under his wing, "What are you doing here so late, Philly?"

"Tis Christmas, sir!" she exclaimed, her ears waving happily. He sat up a little straighter in his armchair and sure enough the little elf had stacked an assortment of brightly wrapped parcels of ranging shapes and sizes at the foot of his bed.

"Thank you for waking me, Philly. You may go." The elf bowed low and was gone with a small 'pop'.

Dumbledore sighed deeply, sorely tempted to drift off to sleep again, when the hint of a familiar red pattern caught his eye. It was a rather large rectangular box wrapped in gold paper with red tartan ribbon. Inspired by curiosity and an unashamedly childish form of Christmas glee he heaved himself out of his chair and pulled it aside.

It was very heavy.

He loosened the bow absentmindedly as he read and reread the handwritten note tucked under the ribbon. If it had not been obvious already, her neat, slanted cursive would have given her away.

 _Just in case._

Just in case of what, exactly? He could not help but wonder if Minerva's dry sense of humour extended so far as to sending him a cat sized coffin for Christmas.

He needn't had worried.

As the wrappings fell away they revealed a tall mahogany box but it resembled a nightstand more closely than a sarcophagus. He opened the two panelled doors on the front but instead of shelves he was faced with a rather intricate wooden screen set with a dark filigree fabric. He prodded it gently, wondering if it would shift if he forced it, but it gave no sign it wanted to move. On the side of the box was a small metal circle set into the wood, an even smaller square perfectly centred inside it.

Thoroughly bamboozled he scratched his beard.

…

Ivy came down from Ravenclaw Tower early and brought her stack of gifts with her so they could open them together. Sterling, feeling lonely in Gryffindor Tower all by himself, came too.

"Nice to finally see you by my death bed, Barrett." Minerva jested from underneath the pile of paper on her lap, jamming the hand knitted hat from her mother onto her head.

"Nice to see you're not actually dying, McGonagall." He threw back at her along with a small wrapped box.

"Where's mine?" Ivy asked with mock indignation before Sterling tossed her a significantly larger parcel.

With half a liquorice wand handing from her mouth Minerva threw his own gift to him.

"Is this a book? McGonagall I swear-" he tore the paper away, "Of course it is: _Excellent Quidditch Players and How to Handle Them_. Very funny."

"I thought so." She grinned and opened the box. "New gloves. Are you trying to tell me something?"

"Only if that something is that yours have holes in them."

"They're lucky."

"They're old."

"What did you get Ivy?" she asked leaning over for the box from her father she had been avoiding.

"It's a necklace." She said quietly, showing it to Minerva while Sterling shuffled his feet awkwardly. Resting on a moth eaten cushion was a slightly tarnished thread of silver crawling ivy.

"I saw it in the Junk Shop in Diagon Alley and thought of you." He rubbed the back of his neck, worsening the red tinge slowly creeping up to his face, "The shop-keeper said it blooms in spring sometimes… but he was probably lying…I'm just going to take my book and myself and go put some proper clothes on for lunch. I'll see you down there."

"Sterling wait." Ivy was positively beaming, "It's really lovely. Thank you."

Sterling had the same lopsided smile as when Balthazar had clubbed him up the side of the head with his beater's bat and bumped into the door on his way out. Ivy giggled. Minerva shook her head.

"What's that?" she asked, climbing back onto the bed.

"A gift from my father." Her tone must have given her away because Ivy's sudden euphoria dropped away.

"You know…" she began, "that's why we didn't go home, Sterling and me. It just feels a bit strange sometimes when you get back and your family is so happy to see you but… you have nothing to talk about, nothing in common. Like you're some kind of freak."

"How do you know? About my father, I mean."

"Robert told me. He's not nearly as secretive as you. Did you think we'd hold it against you or something if we knew? Sterling and I are both muggle-born, you don't care. Why would we care that your father is a muggle too?"

"Have you told anyone?"

"Of course not."

"Don't…please. It's just hard, that's all. And it only gets harder the older I get. I love him, I really do. He's my father and I'm his 'wild girl' but…"

"You just keep drifting."

"Yes."

"Well," Ivy grabbed the hands toying with ribbon on the gift she could not bear to open, "Let's see what your father got his 'wild girl', shall we?"

Minerva smiled faintly and nodded. Ivy pulled on the bow and lifted the lid.

"Do I want to see?" Minerva asked.

"Yes. I really think you do."

…

They found a cluster of students already milling about the table when they entered the Great Hall, exchanging chocolate frog cards and showing of their presents. Some had not even changed out of their pyjamas, simply throwing on a jumper or pulling on a school robe, most had made themselves relatively respectable. Minerva gripped Ivy's arm a little tighter, she was beginning to feel very aware of how much she stood out in her emerald robes. Behind her the doors opened again and one of the Slytherin prefects slipped in behind them. Lucan Volantis, was wearing richly embroidered, and obviously new, robes of his own.

"The colour suits you, Minerva." He winked as he passed and found a seat beside Sterling who was staring at his plate eagerly.

"Are you ok, Minerva? Should we sit down? Oh, Merry Christmas Professor Dumbledore, Professor Slughorn, Professor Beery."

Slughorn, reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights, mumbled a reply while attempting to conceal a bottle of mead behind his back. Professor Beery, who had been rendered deaf in one ear after last year's fire, appeared not to have heard her at all and followed along in Slughorn's ample wake. Dumbledore alone returned her Christmas cheer though he seemed to be having considerable trouble remembering her name and his eyes kept flicking between her and Minerva.

"And to you Miss…" Why on earth could he not remember her name? He had taught her for six years now, he had spoken to her yesterday… Ivy Jones!"Jones."

Trying hard not to smile to broadly, Ivy glanced over her shoulder.

"I'd best go find Sterling. Will you be alright Minerva?"

"I'm fine, Ivy. Thank you."

Only now, here in a room full of people, was he aware of just how tall she was. Only a few inches shorter than himself. Her robes rustled as she shifted her weight, they were half a shade darker than the Slytherin green and she had braided her long hair up off of her face but her fringe had already fought its way free. She tucked it behind her ear.

"Did you like your present, sir?" she asked, quietly so as none of her class mates might hear her.

"I admit it has rather baffled me." He confessed, trying not to stare.

Rather than disappointment, triumph lit her face and raised a rare smile.

"Don't you know what it is?" she teased, lightly.

"A trick?"

But she was saved from answering by the arrival of the Headmaster and Albus followed her closely on his way to the staff table as she made her way to a seat between Ivy and Lucan. He sat himself down beside Professor Slughorn who already seemed to be red in the face.

Armando Dippet took his place at the centre of the long table.

"I do hope everyone is enjoying a very Merry Christmas." and he started the feast with a wave of his hand.

The students audibly sighed with delight at the sight of glistening, glazed hams and steaming, roasted turkeys and the hall was suddenly filled with the sound of bangs and pops, shrieks and laughter, and a rather large amount of blue smoke as they tugged on the ends of their crackers.

Dumbledore heard a girl squeal as a colony of bats escaped up into the ceiling. He took the proffered end of the Christmas cracker that Armando was offering him and pulled with enthusiasm leaving the headmaster spluttered in the aftermath and waving away the smoke from his face. Dumbledore offered him the deerstalker cap that had fallen onto his plate but Armando waved it away dismissively and leaned over.

"I must thank you for the cloak, Albus. I was in much need of a replacement."

"Think nothing of it. I appreciate the sweets, by the way. Spindles has always been a favourite."

"I suspected as much." Armando admitted, patting the younger wizard on the back of his hand before reaching for the nearest dish.

Albus swapped the deerstalker cap with Horace, put on his rather smart pilgrim's hat and began piling his plate with turkey and roasted potatoes. He was reaching for the gravy boat when he noticed Minerva transfigure the holly on the side of her cloche hat into a thistle.

She winked quickly when she caught sight of him watching her before turning back to her luncheon. He was brought very quickly back to reality when a stray gesture from Horace knocked his goblet into his lap, Horace; who was retelling a story rather enthusiastically to Professor Beery, did not seem to notice.

By the time pudding had vanished to the kitchens Albus was feeling pleasantly full and was heavily minded to indulge in an afternoon nap. Beside him Horace had been unable to resist that very same urge and had fallen asleep with his face precariously close to his mashed potatoes. Most of the students had peeled away, Miss Jones and Mr Barrett had already left while Minerva and Mr Volantis had continued to chat over whatever was left in their goblets but Mr Volantis' companions seemed eager to return to the Slytherin common room. Minerva had apparently noticed and made to stand up from the table, her fingers were white on the tabletop.

The line of Slytherin boys filed out of the hall as Lucan walked with her to the doors and bid her a good afternoon. Albus excused himself from the table.

Closing the doors behind him, he found her leaning casually against the banister on the landing of the marble staircase.

"Miss McGonagall?" his voice carried a little louder than he would have liked.

She arched one severe brow, "Professor?"

"May I steal a moment of your time?" Her mouth twitched.

"Of course."

She waited patiently on the landing, looking particularly regal, for him to catch up. She looked a touch paler than she had before lunch and he had the impression she was fighting very hard to remain standing. He offered his arm and she took it gratefully.

"This suits you very well," he began, nodding at her robes, "a gift?"

"From my father. Have you had any luck in making that radio of yours work, sir?" she asked innocently enough, though Albus felt like he was walking into a trap.

"Unfortunately when I took it apart… I've rather forgotten how to put it back together again."

She looked up at him with a shadow of genuine disbelief.

"Why a muggle radio, Albus? A wizard made radio works perfectly well within Hogwarts."

"Yes but they rather lack the charm, don't you think?"

"I don't think you sought me out to debate the finer points on radios, sir."

"No," he agreed, "I was rather hoping you could explain the contraption you've sent me."

Minerva smiled. Her eyes were very green.

It was a long walk to the seventh floor.

He opened the door to his study and held it for her. "Ladies first." He reasoned before he helped her into an armchair by the fire. She found the mahogany case underneath the window.

"Have you opened it?" she asked.

"Yes, there are no shelves." She could see his brain working very hard, trying to piece together the riddle before she solved it for him.

"There are not meant to be any. Try opening the lid." she suggested.

The lid? The cautiously approached the box and ran his long fingers over the top, searching for a seam amongst the etchings. Eventually Minerva took pity on him, pulled herself out of the chair and lifted the lid of the gramophone.

Dumbledore's mouth fell open slightly, forming a lopsided circle in a silent 'oh'.

"It's a gramophone," she explained and picked up the z-shaped key tucked away under the lid, "it winds up, with the crank-"she held it up for his inspection before she slotted it into the circle he had been examining earlier, "It doesn't need batteries, or electricity, it just makes music."

She flourished her wand and a flat square parcel materialised in her hand. I meant to give you this too… but it only arrived this morning." She finished apologetically. He was looking at her with a mix of appreciation and what she assumed was a reminder that teachers were not meant to accept gifts from students.

"Don't worry, Professor. I'm not one of the girls who has been sending you notes. I just wanted to say thank you for the lessons and the company and… not letting me die." She trailed off, almost embarrassed. Afraid she had miss stepped she composed herself and made for the door but he raised a hand to stop her.

"Would you show me how it works?"

She nodded to the square in his hand, "You'll need to open that."

Deftly vanishing the wrappings Dumbledore turned the slip over in his hands. Minerva gently took it from him and slid out a large black disk. Set it on the turn table and wound the crank a good few times before turning the needle to the vinyl. Dumbledore barely had time to read the script across the front of the slip before the mournful keening of a lone oboe escaped out from behind the doors of the gramophone.

"It's from Swan Lake… a ballet, my favourite ballet." She explained.

"You've seen a ballet?" he asked curiously, seemingly mesmerised as he watched the record spin round and round.

Minerva sat down on the arm of the chair

"Every year. My father brings us all to London over the summer, just before we come back here. My mother will take Robert and Malcolm to Diagon Alley and I go to the ballet with my father." She glanced up at him, gauging his reaction but he was impassive.

"I love the opera." He confessed, "I often used to go with Nicolas and Perenelle Flamel."

"The alchemist?"

"The very same. We were meant to see _La Traviata_ but we had arrived to London late and the tickets had all been sold. It was Perenelle who suggested that, rather than spoil a perfectly good evening, we simply watch something else. _La Traviata_ is a particular favourite of mine and so it was only begrudgingly that I agreed.

"We saw Swan Lake. I had never seen a ballet before but I was mesmerised from the moment the curtain drew back. That was many years ago now and I've seen a great number of ballets since but none have ever compared."

"It is like magic."

"Minerva?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."


	10. Friends with Fireworks

**Friends with Fireworks.**

 **December 31** **st** **1951.**

Madam Doufant had finally released Minerva from the hospital wing on Boxing Day and not a moment too soon.

She had always hated hospitals.

A great deal of her earliest memories were of sitting on hard benches in a musty hallway, scuffing the toes of her shoes on the faded green paint of the floor boards. In these foggy recollections Robert was usually patiently sat beside her. The both of them strangely impassive as their brother's cries echoed down the halls.

Since before he could walk Malcolm had been in possession of the ability to wreck more havoc than a runaway train. He had lit his first fire by the time he was six months old and spent his first birthday in the emergency room after breaking his arm after falling out of a tree that no one had seen him climb.

As they grew older Minerva and Robert would stay home with their father and mend the considerable damage that Malcolm had wrought. She found it far more preferable to the smell of chloroform and that ugly, filtered yellow light that made it feel as if the walls were closing in around her. By the time she was nine she could have the house back in order in under and hour; provided that her father was not watching.

But the hours spent in their little house waiting, quietly eating their reheated supper in the kitchen that her father just could not manage to light as brightly as her mother, only served to impress on her that their family was not like other families. This weighed heavy on her father's mind too, she knew, though he tried valiantly to conceal it from her. He would smile as the sun went down and mother had still not come home. He would brush her hair gently and put them to bed with a kiss to the forehead and a wish for sweet dreams. And she would lie awake and listen.

Minerva could count his footsteps on the creaking landing and the gentle click of her parent's bedroom door. The sliver of orange light under her own door would fade next as the hall light was turned out but she knew her father had not gone to bed. She would hear his tip toe footfalls on the stairs and caught the faint flick of a light switch down stairs. Then came the faint chink of glass and just the hint of a groan she had never been sure belonged to father or the tired old armchair.

She would stay there, staring into the dark until she heard the sound of the ambulance engine rumble up the laneway and keys being dropped on a countertop. The stairs would groan and the hall would creak as Malcolm was put to bed and then hushed voices would hiss and grumble as her mother and father argued softly in the room below hers.

Hospitals only served to remind her that her mother was a witch and her father was a muggle, even now, miles away in the hospital of a school for magic. So she had accepted Madam Doufant's conditions of her release with little complaint and packed up her things as quickly as she was able.

She had been glad to leave and sleep in the comfort of her own bed again but soon enough the joys of this familiar comfort began to wear thin. As per Madam Doufant's instructions, Minerva was not allowed to leave Gryffindor Tower except for meals and as a result she was beginning to feel distinctly claustrophobic.

She woke early on New Year's Eve to clear, white sunshine filtering through her curtains. She pulled her blankets up under her chin and allowed herself to bask in the cold light for a few moments before she sat up and touched her feet to the cold floor. She dragged a pair of trousers and a jumper out from her trunk, dressed quickly and sat down again to brush out her hair. As she unravelled her braid she knew it had been a mistake to leave her hair to its own devices for two days and she eased out the worst of the tangles with her fingers before gingerly taking to it with a brush. She had always wondered who she'd gotten her hair from. Her mother was beautiful and blonde with hair that fell in a sleek sheet to her waist and always said that Minerva must have inherited it from her grandmother. This meant that most days she would have liked to jinx her great-grandmother, and her hair, but Isobel had only ever spoken fondly of this old woman who shared her daughter's name and Minerva thought it would be unsporting indeed to jinx a dead woman with her own wand.

Minerva looked over at the pale ash wand beside her water jug. She had been so excited to have a wand of her very own but when she had received her Hogwart's letter instead of the fabled journey to Diagon Alley she had been given a dusty old box with a dusty old wand inside. She had never really liked the unicorn wand, and she suspected it did not particularly like her either, every ounce of magic it produced felt forced. It was like trying to control a cursed broomstick. It objected to every instruction. But it had served her well enough in her six years at school and she knew that, as well as for sentiments sake, wands were expensive and Isobel had given it to her because she could not have especially afforded a new wand from Ollivander's.

After examining herself briefly in the mirror she took her great-grandmother's wand and her hair downstairs to breakfast.

The great hall was almost entirely deserted. The house tables had been replaced in anticipation of the returning students who were due to arrive tomorrow evening. Hufflepuff's table was all together empty as was Gryffindor's. The Head Girl sat alone at Ravenclaw table but a seat at Slytherin table was occupied by a familiar face. He had his face buried in the morning edition of the Daily Prophet and did not seem to notice her approach.

"Good morning, Lucan." She said pleasantly.

The dark haired boy looked up in surprise, finished chewing his toast purposefully and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin before returning her greeting.

"It is indeed."

"May I join you?" she asked and Lucan nodded enthusiastically through his coffee.

"By all means." And he gestured for her to sit, folding up his paper and placing it on the seat beside him. "Tea? Coffee?" he offered, reaching for a clean cup and saucer from the tray on the table.

"Tea, if you don't mind." She said with a hint of a smile. Lucan was infamously proper in his etiquette in the most endearing fashion. Augusta liked to think that he was rather full of himself but Minerva found him to be unfailingly hospitable and polite.

"I've not seen you around, Minerva." He said rather seriously, "Not still stuck in the hospital wing I hope?"

"No. I… How do you know about that?" she asked sharply.

Lucan grinned and passed her over her cup.

"I'm sure the whole school knows by now." He said, still smiling. "Milk? The ghosts do enjoy a good gossip. Anyone would think they didn't have anything better to do."

Minerva scowled as she stirred milk into her tea.

"Apparently you blew yourself up?"

"Something to that effect." She conceded dryly in a tone that suggested she was not about to elaborate before filling her plate with toast and porridge.

Lucan watched her pensively for a moment while she spread marmalade on her toast.

"Are you doing anything tonight?" he asked quite suddenly. Minerva swallowed so quickly she choked a little and had to take a sip of tea.

"It's highly unlikely." She said with a slight croak and took another measured sip.

Lucan examined his fingernails rather critically.

"Some friends of mine have found themselves to be in possession of quite a large number of fireworks," he began, "apparently Zonko's had a yuletide sale. A few of us are going out to the lake later this evening to set them off and have a small to-do, you know," he waved airily, "with it being Hogmanay and all, and I was wondering if you'd like to join me?" he finished quite boldly though still unable to look her directly in the eye.

Minerva had several questions and a handful of scattered emotions run through her brain in quick succession but when she opened her mouth to reply she found herself asking,

"How on earth did you manage to smuggle fireworks into Hogwarts?"

Lucan sighed in mock despair and poured himself a goblet of pumpkin juice.

"One day, Minerva, you'll forget about rules and have some fun."

"I have fun!" She objected with a smile.

"Then come out with me tonight." He insisted.

Minerva looked at him suspiciously over her tea cup.

"Is this a date, Lucan?" she asked, seriously.

"A date?" he spluttered, apparently aghast but the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth gave him away, "What are a few fireworks between friends?"

"What makes you think I'd go on a date with a _Slytherin_?" she teased lightly.

"For the same reason you'd have breakfast with one... And you do seem to have a certain affinity for green." He pointed out with a glance at her emerald jumper.

"I'm flattered, Lucan, really. And as much as I really would like to come out tonight I'm afraid I can't. I'm sorry." She apologised.

Lucan leant back and sighed with good natured disappointment.

"Oh well, you can't blame me for trying." He admitted with a slightly sheepish smile before they returned to their breakfast in perfectly amicable silence.

* * *

"Are you even trying?" Minerva asked scathingly as Sterling's king was decapitated for the fifth time that evening.

"You know I'm no good at chess." He huffed back, "Can't we play gobstones or something?" he asked, picking up the broken pieces from the table.

"Its ok." she rejected as gently as she could.

"I think Walter left a pack of exploding snap in the dorm-" he tried but Minerva had pushed the board away.

"Don't worry about it." She said moodily, watching her pieces clambered back into their box, "I'll go read or something."

"Minerva." But she was already trudging up the stairs to her empty dormitory.

The house elves had obviously already been through the dorms. A fire was already blazing bright and the room was so warm that she took off her jumper and threw it into her neatly packed trunk before she flung herself onto her bed. She stared aimlessly at the canopy of her four poster quite contentedly for a while with a head full of nothing, trying not to think of all the places she'd rather be. She followed the bumps and turns in the grain of the wood. Trying to make stories out of the shapes and lines that had once been the rings of a living tree many years ago. She lost herself in wondering just how long her bed had been standing there is Gryffindor Tower, wondering how many girls had slept in her bed, and squinting until the innocent squiggles in the timber vaguely resembled… something. A dragon. A dragon breathing fire.

No.

She tilted her head a little to the side.

Not a dragon.

A phoenix. A phoenix in flight. Its brilliant tail feathers spread out on the breeze.

He eyes moved along the beams until she was chasing mice along the beam into the waiting mouth of a hungry cat. She smiled faintly to herself. It was almost like watching clouds.

The sky outside had darkened from indigo to inky black and the light of the fire lengthened the shadows of the dormitory until they hid the fiery bird and the patient cat in darkness.

Nothing quickly became boredom.

She rolled over onto her stomach and reached for the book on her nightstand. She found her page easily enough but it was like trying to read after someone had crossed the wires in her brain, trying to direct her to something else. The words seemed to wander across the page and before too long she had read the same sentence six or seven times and had not taken in a word of it. Outside she could see the faint orange glow of a bonfire somewhere in the distance.

She did not want to read.

She found that she did not even want to be out by the lake side with Lucan and his friends. She liked Lucan, she considered them to be good friends but thought maybe on occasion he thought of her the way that Sterling thought of Ivy. He was certainly handsome, easily one of the best looking boys in their year, incredibly clever and excellent company. However, she doubted that her kind of company would satisfy Lucan. She had always been much too focused on her school work to be interested in dating. It seemed like an unnecessary distraction and she privately believed that if Augusta had not spent so much time sneaking out with Walter she would have passed her charms OWL with next to no trouble.

She was curious though. What satisfaction could be found in another person that couldn't be found deep in a spell book? In weaving something that no one else had managed to achieve. What was so special about ' _love_ ' anyway? Everyone seemed to find it at one point or another. Vera seemed to find it every second day.

No one had become an animagus so young before but she would. So why on earth would she want to be anywhere else in the world when she could be nestled away in the half lit classroom in the deserted transfiguration corridor? With the sputtering candles washing the rough, stone walls in their pale light, growing fainter and fainter as she worked late into the night. Glinting off Albus' spectacles and sparkling somewhere deep in his eyes. She wanted to lay on the desktop and stare at the ceiling as if it were stars. Lost in thought. To spill ink on drafted spells and weave enchantments on parchment. She missed the pressing silence of the castle at night. The peaceful quiet broken only by the faint rattle of window panes in the whipping wind and the absentminded humming of the school ghosts.

Quiet was hard to come by in Gryffindor Tower, even now with only Sterling and a handful of fourth years for company. Years of shouting from the opposite end of the quidditch pitch had left Sterling quite unable to speak quietly or remain silent for any extended period of time. While she welcomed his company and appreciated his efforts to make her confinement in the common room at least endurable, she would gladly forfeit a win against… maybe not Slytherin but Ravenclaw, to escape from the warm, squashy fireside and its lingering smell of spilt butterbeer. To instead ease in the cool of the first floor and be warmed, not by a fire, but by the faint, lilting scent of old parchment. Of clean wool and lemon balm. To be told to look deep within herself while he seemed to search her soul with the ease of a glance. To be extraordinary.

But she could no more sneak down six flights of the grand staircase than she could be out in the snow of the grounds. So she sat in the dark of her dormitory and watched from her bed as a spectacular show of fireworks burst and glittered over the frozen lake. Wishing she was somewhere else.


	11. Slander and Calumny

**I'm sorry about the delay on the last chapter, I ran into a bit of writer's block. I hope you enjoy this chapter, it is a bit of a filler before we get back in MMAD goodness but let me know what you think.**

 **Apologies again. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **February 1952**

It had taken Augusta rather a long time to speak to Minerva again.

On the evening that Augusta and Walter were due to return to Hogwarts from the Christmas break Minerva had opted to skip supper all together. Considering that she had received no reply to her considerably lengthy letter of explanation she thought it the best way to avoid a scene breaking out in the Great Hall.

It had been a somewhat valid plan. Minerva was not made to suffer a very public dressing down in front of the entire school.

Instead, upon realising that Minerva was _not_ at dinner, Augusta had stormed her way up the marble staircase to the Gryffindor common room in a towering temper and had given Minerva barely enough time to look up from her book before launching into an exceedingly loud, and obviously well-rehearsed, rant.

In the interest of friendship Minerva had sat in a state of polite impassivity and waited, somewhat impatiently, for Augusta to tire herself out. She had, after all, done the same for Ivy.

But Augusta's stamina was impressive.

Minerva's patience was not.

"- WITH NOT SO MUCH AS A WORD! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO THINK? 3 IN THE MORNING AND YOUR BED IS EMPTY **AGAIN** – DON'T YOU WALK AWAY FROM ME MINERVA MCGONAGALL!" Augusta bellowed across the room.

"I'm not about to stand here while you disturb the entire castle with such childish pettiness." she shouted back, "I've apologised! What more do you want from me? My wand at your service? A kiss at your feet? I. AM. SORRY!"

"You're sorry?" Augusta spluttered. Her cheeks had angry red splotches blooming and she seemed somewhat flat. Deflated. But she seemed to swell again as she sucked air into her lungs.

"YOU'RE SORRY?!" she exploded.

Minerva had hardly time to duck as a heavy ink well hurtled past her ear and shattered against the portrait over the fireplace.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?" she cried over the shrieks of the ruffled old witch in the painting.

"ME?" Augusta screeched, taking aim with a copy of _Spellman's Syllabary._ "Do you know what kind of rumours were flying through the train faster than a thestral in flight? DO YOU?"

Minerva drew her wand as Augusta pulled back her arm.

"PROTEGO!"

Augusta stumbled and fell into a table as the force of Minerva's shield charm knocked her back. Colour rising further up her face. But Minerva had gone ghost white.

"Who's left to protect your precious reputation? Clean up your mess? ME!"

She wasn't listening. Augusta's shouts were just white noise reverberating around a single word echoing in the din.

 _Rumours_?

A cold weight had frozen in her chest but her face felt hot. Her collar was tight at her throat. Itchy. The room was stifling.

She barely registered that Augusta was still yelling as she slipped past her to the portrait hole. Sterling and Walter had just rounded the corner to the corridor as she climbed out from behind the Fat Lady.

"Minerva?" they asked in unison.

"Minerva I tried to stop her." Walter apologised weakly.

But Minerva did not so much as slow down. Nor did she release Augusta from behind the shield charm until had safely hidden herself in the prefects bathroom on the fifth floor.

It took more than a month for the storm to break.

* * *

On the night of the 6th Sterling was distracted from his food on account of attempting to worm information about the upcoming Ravenclaw/ Slytherin match out of Ivy.

"Come on Ivy." He pleaded, "you flattened Hufflepuff. If you beat Slytherin, Ravenclaw will be on top of the table."

"I'm not about to help Gryffindor steal the cup out from under us." Ivy maintained between mouthfuls. But Minerva had never seen a person focused so intently on their dinner or disinterested in conversation as Augusta was now. Though this was not new behaviour.

For weeks now she had paid Minerva about as much attention as her own shadow. At first the inattention had done little to faze her but Augusta's continued refusal to acknowledge her presence whilst in the same room together had begun to rub into a sore spot. Vera, who seemed to smell a weakness at several paces, had taken extraordinary delight in mercilessly poking at it.

Vera, Minerva had learned later from Walter, had been the one who had spread sensational stories up and down the Hogwarts Express before she had even regained consciousness. Minerva could not credit her with being particularly gifted in many things but her ability to churn the rumour mill was one of her better talents.

She had endured the catcalls in the corridors, the wolf whistles from across the Great Hall, even the odd jeer through the staircase. Malcolm had lost over 50 points from Gryffindor for duelling in the corridors. 20 of which Minerva had taken from him herself after he had punched a fifth year boy in the mouth for calling his sister a slapper. The same boy had reportedly been unable to re-enter Ravenclaw Tower under account of his tongue being glued to the roof of his mouth. Minerva had been unable to determine whether this was Robert or Ivy's handiwork as they were decidedly more subtle in their actions than Malcolm. She had struggled to have more than a moment's conversation with Professor Dumbledore outside of class and their brief exchanges were limited to yet another excuse for postponing her private lessons.

But worse than this; late at night, when the talk and the whispers were nothing but a swirling, poisonous mass beneath Gryffindor Tower, Vera's voice would cut across the dark dormitory with sweet venom and strike through the hangings of her four poster bed.

And Augusta would remain silent.

However, when Walter's owl soared through the high window of the hall and stepped through Augusta's potatoes to deliver the evening edition of the Daily Prophet she was anything but.

"Augusta be quiet." Walter shushed her sharply.

As if by instinct she looked to Minerva with an appalled and offended expression before she could remember not to. Before she could rectify her mistake Ivy's tawny owl swooped past her face. Closely followed by Sterling's drowsy barn owl.

Flicking mashed potato off of her fingers, Augusta turned her face to the ceiling.

"Oh my." She said in a small voice that was soon lost in the mad rush of wings that had filled the room.

All through the hall, at every table, students were being inundated by owl post. Minerva turned immediately to look up at the staff table. Professor Slughorn had his pudgy little hand pressed to his mouth and was fishing for his handkerchief in his breast pocket. Professor Beery had frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth, the Headmaster was striding out of the hall and Professor Numera had taken off her hat.

"Augusta what's going on?" Minerva murmured over the table to Augusta who was busy reading over Walter's shoulder.

"The King…" she whispered, "Minerva I think the King is dead."

And looking around the room, she thought she might be right.

Professor Vene was weeping silently into her goblet. Tears were falling steadily from Ivy's long lashes as she read the letter from her parents and all through the hall came the steady cries and exclamations from muggleborns and their letters from home. Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.

"I think, I'm finished." Sterling muttered to no one in particular, folding up this letter with shaking hands. He stood stiffly, as though he'd forgotten how, and left the hall.

"Yeah, me too." Walter agreed quietly and followed after him.

Augusta looked meaningfully from Minerva to Ivy, who still hadn't shifted from her position as a weeping statue, but was saved from having to intervene by a jarring knock to the shoulder.

"Ouch, Malcolm." She protested.

"You got a paper?" he asked hurriedly and reached across her for Walter's abandoned Prophet without waiting for a reply. "Here, Alastor." He called back down the table to a smaller dark haired boy who snatched it out of his hands.

"Minerva do you know what's going on?" came another, more temperate, voice, "someone said something about the King… Goodness, Ivy are you alright?"

"She'll be alright, Robert." She assured, softly, "Can you take her back to the common room?"

Robert nodded solemnly, "Yes of course. Malcolm!" he snapped as his brother's blonde head popped in between and over shoulders to get a better look at the paper, "get away, you're like a crow on a carcass."

Malcolm shot Robert a filthy look but sat down all the same, his eyes following intently. Waiting until his back was turned.

Augusta and Minerva helped Robert get Ivy to her feet before they left their plates too.

"Go to bed." She said sharply and clipped Malcolm over the back of the head; whose nose had risen to peek under a seventh year girl's elbow. Grumbling and rubbing his head, Malcolm shuffled from the hall with his friend in tow. Minerva and Augusta followed close behind.

She did not think she could have recalled a stranger sight. Groups of students had huddles in masses all over the hall, at tables, against walls, on the floor. Families had converged, just as her own had, for solace or information. House tables and colours seemed to have been forgotten. Others had fled the hall all together and Augusta and Minerva met them in their tight groups on the stairs. Heard the echo of their stifled cry from the alcoves in the corridors. The portraits were ashen. Did news really travel that fast?

When they reached the common room they found it empty and the fire cold in its hearth. Without a word they continued up to their dormitory. Minerva lit the lamps with her wand and they dressed for bed in silence. It wasn't until she was turning down her covers that Augusta found her voice again.

"Do you think I can fall asleep before Vera gets here?" she asked with a yawn, "If I have to listen to her jibe all night again I think I might hex her. Talk about sour grapes."

"Sour grapes?" Minerva queried, pulling up the covers and extinguishing her lamp.

"Mmm… the only reason she bothered to stir up a fuss at all was because Lucan made a fool of her in front of half the school. He came over to us while we were waiting for the carriages," she said through an enormous yawn, "looking for you I suspect. Anyway. Vera and Ainslie were lurking about with a couple of Hufflepuff girls from Herbology and… well, you know as much as I don't fancy him Volantis isn't hard to look at. Ainslie was giggling like an idiot and Vera turns around and asks if he'd go to Hogsmeade with her when we got back from holidays… He told her he'd sooner spend Christmas at Hogwarts. Turned around without so much as a start and dragged his things back inside. She didn't know you were in the hospital wing… she was just looking for any excuse to drag you both in a bit of mud… But I didn't know why he'd want to stay here over Christmas when he'd arranged to go home… I thought… well it doesn't matter now." She trailed off in a matter-of-fact tone.

But the wheels suddenly clunked into place.

"Do you mean to tell me," Minerva cut in, "that you've neglected to speak to me for _over a month_ because _Vera Cunningham_ started a rumour that you felt honour bound to deny but then got crabby about because you thought it might be true?"

There was an affected little sniff off in the darkness.

"Well when you put it like that…"

"Pride made Lucan stay at Hogwarts. Not me."

"Yes. I can see that now." She snapped.

"You could have just asked me." Minerva rolled her eyes, exasperated.

"Or you could have just told me what you were doing." Augusta huffed, and rolled over.

Minerva could not help but smile.

"Good night, Augusta."

"Hmph."


	12. A Gentleman's Agreement

**24** **th** **February 1952**

Minerva looked up from her cereal as Augusta's elbow jabbed her sharply in the ribs.

"Ow! What was that-?" but she broke off, having caught sight of Sterling trying to conceal himself behind Walter as they entered the hall.

"Oh Sterling." Augusta admonished as he sat down sheepishly.

"What are you wearing? You're Gryffindor's captain for heaven's sake!"

"It's just a scarf." He reasoned but sank down in his seat until his chin was resting on the table.

"It's a _blue_ scarf." Minerva clarified, pointing with her spoon.

"Let him be." Walter defended apathetically from behind the mound of food he'd piled onto his plate, "Ivy wears red when Gryffindor play," he explained whilst shovelling scrambled eggs into his mouth, "sometimes we eat at Ravenclaw table…" he gave an enormous swallow, "Some of us even breakfast with Slytherin's." he waved a fork casually in Minerva's direction who covered her goblet with her hand as a chunk of kipper threatened to fly off into her pumpkin juice. "What's a blue scarf between friends?"

"Is Emelia Gates still flying lead for Ravenclaw?" Minerva asked after scowling briefly at Walter.

Sterling's head raised a few inches off of the table.

"No. She still can't fly straight after that collision with Marigold last Thursday, they had to bring in the reserve. Serves her right... She shouldn't hold the quaffle for so long so close to the hoops… anyway, Lowenstein is flying lead instead."

"Lowenstein can't tumble to save her life!" Minerva exclaimed.

"Can't catch either." Sterling remarked dryly, biting into a piece of toast.

Minerva looked over her shoulder to where the Ravenclaw team where huddled at their table and grimaced.

"Oh God, I hope Ivy has her head together." She sighed.

"I hope Slytherin have all come down with piles." Sterling grumbled.

Walter choked.

"They look perfectly healthy to me." Minerva conceded with a note of disappointment. Lucan caught her gaze as she swept the table and raised a hand in polite greeting. She smiled quickly in reply before turning back to her friends.

The tales concerning her, or Lucan, or both, had grown increasingly tall until they were practically inconceivable before they finally petered themselves out. Ainslie had graciously bowed out of trading underhanded insults in the girl's dormitory and as a result; Vera had become unusually caustic, even for her. But with Augusta back on her side Minerva hardly cared and neither, it seemed, did anyone else. However, the periphery was not necessarily a position in which Vera thrived and Minerva wondered how much longer I would take until her ego imploded.

"Come on." Augusta tugged at her elbow. "I want good seats."

* * *

"Have you had anymore animagus lessons?" Augusta asked as they trudged down the muddy path to the quidditch pitch.

"No." Minerva frowned, "Dumbledore's been busy… and I think he's worried he's going to kill me. Or at least let me kill myself."

"Is it really that dangerous?" Augusta queried sincerely.

Minerva squinted into the weak sunlight, "I don't even know what happened last time." She admitted uncomfortably, "I can't even really remember… I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I was so cold and everything just _hurt_ …"

She hadn't spoken aloud about what had happened to anyone. In fact, if she were being honest with herself, she had tried very hard to avoid thinking about it at all. She had been frightened, terrified, when her had come back to herself on the floor of that classroom. Her sight warped and blurred like a badly tuned radio.

Colours muted.

Murky.

Muddled.

Everything had been fuzzy and grey. The sounds… the voice calling out to her; muffled, drifting in and out, as if she were struggling in the depths of the lake. Fighting to keep her head above water…

She shrugged away the ominous coil that was tightening in her belly and smiled at Augusta in what she hoped was a reassuring way.

"It must not have been all that bad though, I was only out for 3 days. Sterling has been out for longer than that."she reasoned.

"Minerva this is insanity!" she hissed, "Why on earth do you insist on doing it?"

"Why not?" she countered with a grin.

"You're mad." Augusta insisted. "Certifiable."

"Maybe," Minerva agreed with a small laugh, "It's… it's incomprehensible." she tried to explain, "Complete nonsense that somehow… somehow it makes sense… I can't explain it. When you're there you feel like you could stretch out your hand and feel the fabric of the universe run through your fingers. Like pushing past this _barrier_ and dipping into an entire ocean of magic. You're not trying to unravel some kind of mystery anymore… you become a part of it…it's fun." She beamed.

Augusta tucked her arm under Minerva's and linked their elbows, shaking her head.

"I'm having you committed to St Mungo's. No one, ever, has said that transfiguration is fun. Interesting? Maybe. Difficult? Definitely. Fun? No."

"Miss Wallis, my ears are burning." A jovial voice came from close behind them.

Augusta started slightly and slipped on the frosty grass. She grabbed Minerva around the waist to keep from falling.

"I'm sure that it is just the cold air, sir." Minerva covered quickly and untangled herself from Augusta, "It tends to have that effect." She winked surreptitiously and rubbed her gloved hands together as if to emphasise her point.

"Mmm." Augusta agreed fervently and straightened up. Startled pink patches blooming on her cheeks. "Frostbite can induce a burning sensation in one's extremities; usually the fingers or nose… even the ears-" she rambled off until Minerva pressed on her toes with the heel of her boot.

" _Ouch!"_ she objected out of the corner of her mouth.

"Do you want to go find seats, Augusta?" Minerva suggested pointedly but Augusta did not need coercing.

"Gladly." She muttered, her ears flaming, and hurried off.

"I'll have to invest in a pair of earmuffs." Dumbledore smiled after Augusta had disappeared up into the stands.

Minerva stuffed her hands into the pockets of her cloak.

"I don't suppose you've had much of an opportunity to consider re-continuing our lessons? She asked quietly.

Dumbledore sighed gently and looked back at the growing crowd coming down from the castle. He motioned for her to walk with him.

"We are blocking the path," he explained, "In all honesty Minerva I haven't had much more than a moment to think on it… Am I right in assuming it would be a foolish of me to ask that you stop?" he glanced in her direction long enough to receive a very pointed look that only confirmed his suspicions. Dumbledore let out a long breath of defeat that misted the air.

"I don't suppose that I might ask you to hold off until after the Easter holidays?" he asked sheepishly. "The demand for my time is currently at an all-time high in London."

"London?" Minerva asked with genuine interest, climbing the narrow stairs. Dumbledore followed close behind. He cleared his throat diplomatically.

"Let us just say that the Muggle Liaison Office is having rather a hard time." He offered with a hint of a smile.

Minerva paused on the landing of the staircase, pulled off the glove of her right hand and offered it to Dumbledore who looked momentarily taken aback.

"Then I have your word? That we will take up again after the Easter holidays?"

Dumbledore searched her face, suspicious of this unusual display of patience but reached out with his own nonetheless.

"You have it." He assured, shaking her hand.

"Good." She beamed and pulled her glove back on, "Don't take too long, Albus. I'm beginning to think that you're avoiding me." Her eyes glittered impishly and without another word she turned and was immediately swallowed up into the overexcited sea of roiling students.

When Dumbledore sat down beside Horace moments later, with the memory of how warm and soft her hand had been in his still fresh in his mind, he could not wholly deny that he wasn't.


	13. Ravenclaw vs Slytherin

**Ravenclaw vs Slytherin**

By the time that Walter and Sterling had found them in the stands both the Ravenclaw and Slytherin teams were filing out onto the pitch. All four of them abandoned the seats that Augusta had so diligently guarded and leaned out over the stands.

"How bad will it be if Slytherin wins?" Minerva asked Sterling out of the corner of her mouth.

"Depends." He grumbled a low reply, loosening the scarf around his throat, "Slytherin are at the bottom of the table, no points, as long as they don't beat Ravenclaw by more than 280 points Ravenclaw will still be on top of the table. We really need to work on our chaser plays if we want to win this year. Mallory is a good seeker but Ivy and Aubrey are better… even Marigold might be a shade quicker." He admitted under his breath but was spared from criticising his team further as Ravenclaw took to the air and the sea of blue around them roared enthusiastically. The four lone Gryffindor's focused their cheers on the Ravenclaw seeker.

"GO IVY!" they screamed into the blustering wind and when the Slytherin team joined them at playing height they booed heartily with the rest.

The first 15 minutes after Madam Bluster had commenced play had filled the Ravenclaw stands with a kind of hopeful expectation. It would have been difficult for anyone to assume that Anna Lowenstein and Clara Thornton were flying with anyone they hadn't done for several seasons rather than a complete stranger. To Sterling's great surprise, Anna hadn't dropped the quaffle once. Clara had scored twice and Minerva was thoroughly impressed by the reserve chaser and her particular brand of aerial artistry.

However, the promise of a Ravenclaw victory seemed to melt away alarmingly fast when Warren Fletchley fumbled an easy save…

Dwayne Blaxley threw for the right hoop and Fletchley, stranded by the left post, had let it slip past his outstretched fingers.

"Are you kidding?" Sterling shouted in disbelief.

Augusta groaned. Sterling banged his head repeatedly on the barricade and Minerva and Walter swore loudly.

Fletchley had never been the best keeper that Ravenclaw had ever seen. He had always had a tendency to drift over to one side of the goal posts, leaving the other two wide open.

Walter, who was friendly with Warren, had always defended this particular aspect of Warren's keeping as a very clever feint but Sterling was not to be convinced. He adamantly maintained that it was a supremely bad habit that Fletchley was lucky enough to be able to compensate for with his considerable speed and, as a result, considered him a very sub-par keeper. Minerva tended to sit on Sterling's side of this particular argument. After watching November's match against Hufflepuff she would even argue that Warren's poorly thought out 'starfish-with-no-stick' stunt last year had drastically stilted his acceleration and it looked as if his drifting had only gotten worse.

Ravenclaw's composure began to unravel very quickly after that.

Anna Lowenstein couldn't seem to hold onto the quaffle for more than ten seconds at a time, dropping it completely when Blaxley had threatened to collide with her. Minerva had never seen sloppier formations and Clara was becoming so visibly frustrated with both Anna and the reserve chaser that she almost look pleased when a bludger from Marge Bergstrom knocked Anna off of her broomstick.

"Tumble roll." Minerva and Sterling groaned in unison as she they watched Anna crawl off of the pitch from on high.

Now a player short, the chasers' plays dissolved into complete shambles while Warren seemed to have completely lost his head, shooting off in the wrong direction more often than not.

"It's like watching a car crash." Sterling declared in utter disbelief.

Slytherin were 130 to Ravenclaw's 20 and Minerva was watching with her head in her hands when Ivy and Aubrey Thwaites suddenly streaked past the stands in a blur of blue and green.

Augusta leapt to her feet, utterly beside herself as she and Minerva suddenly screamed encouragement over the barricade into the wind. Sterling and Walter had climbed up onto the seats behind them and whooped loudly with the rest of the crowd with their fists in the air.

"She can turn this around!" Sterling leant down to shout over the din into Minerva's ear before he straightened up and bellowed, "COME ON IVY!"

Ivy, long and thin, was incredibly quick but Aubrey had sharp eyes. She had spotted the snitch first which earned a significant advantage over Ivy's build. Equally tall but slightly broader, Aubrey was blocking every one of Ivy's attempts to come level with her. The snitch glinted brilliant gold against the steely grey sky. As the two seekers directed their brooms skywards in pursuit the stands dissolved into hysterics. Climbing higher and higher Minerva thought that they must have reached at least 150ft before she saw the tiny golden ball fly past them back towards the ground. In an instant Ivy flipped over on her broom and rolled around Aubrey and finally pulled ahead. She had her arm stretched out for the snitch as she continued her near vertical dive, Aubrey right on her tail, both plummeting towards the ground so fast they may as well not have had brooms at all.

Several girls screamed at the terrifyingly steep descent and through the resounding cheers egging them on even faster Minerva heard Augusta gasp, "Oh my!"

They could not have been more than 30ft above the ground when one of the Ravenclaw beaters had thrown all of his weight behind the bludger that had rocketed towards his head and had aimed it instead for Aubrey Thwaites.

It would have been better if he had left it.

Aubrey, who had started to gain on Ivy, had glimpsed the black ball whistling in her direction and braked hard.

She swerved off to the side and the bludger slammed into Ivy instead.

Completely caught by surprise, Ivy was thrown from her Comet 180 and fell the remaining 12ft, crashing heavily to the frosty pitch.

Sterling swore and jumped off his seat. Augusta uttered a little scream and pushed her way through the crowd to lean over the stands with her hands covering her mouth. Minerva and Walter watched with dead eyes as Aubrey Thwaites closed her hand around the struggling gold ball.

Leaning perilously over the stands, the four Gryffindor's let out a small sigh of relief. Ivy had not been seriously hurt. She was lying flat on her back, her broomstick a few paces away, a brilliant emerald smudge on the pitch where she had rolled across the frosty white grass upon impact. She was moving, not very quickly or enthusiastically, ever so slowly she brought her arm up to touch her head.

She was down for less than a minute.

Struggling slightly, she rolled onto her front before clambering unsteadily to her feet tripping on her robes as she went. The remaining members of Ravenclaw team who had managed to stay on their brooms had landed quickly when the game ended and rushed over to see if she was alright.

Before they had come within hailing distance Ivy had untangled herself from her robes and drawn her wand.

"YOU IDIOT!" she screamed and it reverberated through the grounds.

From the stands Walter, Augusta, Sterling, and Minerva heard a loud bang and saw the Ravenclaw beater go flying backwards.

She stumbled over her own broomstick, fell, and stayed down. Her arms covering her face.

Scattered laughter was coming from all directions in the stands.

"Come on." Augusta urged, "We should see if she's ok." She looked rather pale and began shepherding them back towards the stairs.

"On the Brightside," Sterling whispered in Minerva's ear so Augusta would not hear, "They only won by 260 points. Ravenclaw are still in the lead."


	14. Hello my Old Heart

**Hello my Old Heart. (Where have you been?)**

3rd March 1952

Sterling had his head on the desk again. Professor Binns' History of Magic classes required a certain amount of mental fortification just to remain awake, let alone active listening, and both Minerva and Walter were finding Sterling's snuffling snores harder and harder to ignore.

After a particularly enthusiastic snore that made him upset his ink pot, Walter kicked him hard under the desk. Minerva started as the whole desk shook, her head slipping off of her palm, and shot them both a filthy look.

Professor Binns fell silent, adjusted his notes, pushed his thick glasses up his nose and dragged on.

She did not want to admit to herself that she would have liked nothing better than to put her head on her arms and doze off too. The sun was comfortably warm on the back of her neck and her stomach was still pleasantly full from lunch. She forced her eyes to refocus on her notes, noticed that she'd left a sentence half-finished and struggled to remember what she'd been taking down.

Theirs was a very small class. Most students could not wait to drop History of Magic from their timetables the moment they had sat their OWLs but Minerva, Sterling, Walter, Xavier Carmichael from Ravenclaw, and Asher Finley from Slytherin had decided against all better judgment to take it up for NEWTs

"I could be doing my Transfiguration homework." Walter grumbled quietly, rubbing his bleary eyes and putting up a very good show of listening to Professor Binns' monotonous lecture though failing to write anything down. Sterling had lifted his head up just enough to prove that he was awake but bore a distinctly vacant expression, his jaw sagging. Minerva found herself scribbling absentmindedly on the bottom of her parchment, drafting transfiguration formulas between the lines of Ulick Gamp's formation of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in 1707.

When the bell signalled the end of class they gratefully tipped their books back into their bags and followed Xavier to the South Tower for Transfiguration.

Ivy and Augusta were already sitting down by the time they arrived and were watching Professor Dumbledore draw up a series of columns on the blackboard with trepidation. Their grimaces only grew when he began to write their each of their names along both the side and top of the board and then drew corresponding rows. Dusting off his hands, Dumbledore turned away from the table and faced his class.

"There is no need to look quite so anxious," and he smiled over his spectacles, "I assure you this is all in the spirit of fun. In fact," he swept his gaze over to Augusta, "Miss Wallis gave me the idea."

"I did?" she squeaked in a small voice, the tips of her ears going red. She cast around the room looking both apologetic and horrified.

"I realised that, with few exceptions," his eyes lingered on Minerva's for a second, "Transfiguration is not what most people consider to be fun and, if you would indulge me, I would like the opportunity to try and change your mind."

A few of the Ravenclaws were rummaging in their bags suspiciously, obviously concerned that some kind of impromptu quiz was in order, but straightened up quickly when Dumbledore caught sight of them.

"You may consult your text book or any notes that you have with you." He assured, "Of course I would prefer to see the product of your pure creativity… but we can't have everything we want, can we?" he conceded jovially, bouncing slightly as he plucked a handsome red and gold feather from the pocket of his robes.

"Each of you will compete against your fellow classmates to transfigure this," he twirled the feather between his fingers, "into something else. Once everyone has had a turn against everyone else the winner will test themselves against me to earn a very reasonable prize. Now, I think we will start with… Miss Wallis," Augusta moaned, "and Mr Searle." He beckoned them both up in front of the class.

"You'll take turns, say… no more than a minute, at transfiguring the others object until one of you cannot make another move or runs out of time," he dropped the feather between them beaming widely, "and remember, the only limit is your imagination."

Augusta was gripping her wand tightly and was tapping the point of her shoe against the stone floor nervously. Aster Searle gestured towards her politely,

"Ladies first."

Augusta pointed her wand, her mouth moving soundlessly, and a long silken gown of scarlet and gold draped itself over Dumbledore's desk.

A muscle worked furiously in Aster's jaw and Minerva swore she could hear his brain whirring from across the room before, with a jerky slash of his wand, Aster sculpted Augusta's dress into a rather sad and threadbare chaise lounge.

They fought back and forth until Augusta was pink in the face and Aster conceded defeat after Augusta transfigured his whistle into a working pocket watch.

"Next!" Dumbledore said enthusiastically, marking a tally under Augusta's name with a flick of his wand.

Ivy and Xavier faced off next with Ivy successfully befuddling Xavier in three moves.

Minerva decimated Marcus Kettleburn and Sterling lost out to Augusta.

Aster and Sterling fought valiantly for several rounds before Aster ran out of steam again and Walter stepped up to take his place.

Walter and Sterling's round was shortest of all, finishing abruptly when Walter's spell flew high and hit Sterling square in the face. It took Dumbledore and the rest of the class several minutes to calm down enough to stop laughing and for Dumbledore to return Sterling's feathery face back to normal.

Marcus barely outsmarted Xavier but was knocked out completely by Ivy. Augusta emerged triumphant over Walter, though Minerva suspected that he lost on purpose, before being defeated by Xavier who was so surprised at his accomplishment that he didn't manage a single transfiguration against Minerva.

The final round between Ivy and Minerva had the entire class perched on top of their desks brimming with a heady mix of excitement and anticipation. Even Augusta had to admit that she had caught herself having fun.

Ivy was grinning, teetering on her tip toes with her wand held tight and, thoroughly enjoying herself, Minerva found herself smiling too.

Ivy moved first, the porcupine crawling across the floor transformed into a pig with a snuffling snort. In half a second Minerva had transfigured the pig into a table that Ivy turned into a foot stool that became a yapping fox terrier. Momentarily stumped, Ivy took the opportunity to 'aww' with the rest of the class before she reduced it to a plush imitation with a wave of her wand. Minerva tried again, the stuffed toy morphing into a large, bounding golden retriever, and this time forcing Ivy to quite literally bow out. She curtsied facetiously, her arms aloft like a ballerina, then went and sat down beside Augusta. Dumbledore applauded politely and patted the dog on the head apologetically before it vanished and returned to a feather once more.

"That was very impressive," he praised the room at large, "I think this is as good an example as any for you all to realise and remember just how accomplished you have all become and not find yourselves in a state of hopeless despair coming into the exam period. Miss McGonagall," he rounded on her, "would you like to try your hand against me? Or return to your seat victorious?"

"How can I emerge victorious if I have not defeated everyone?" she asked smoothly and quirked an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards.

"Very well, then." He said, his eyes twinkling again, and shrugged off his teaching robe, draped it over the back of his chair and pushed up his sleeves.

Minerva tucked her hair behind her ears and flicked her wand testily; ready and waiting.

While they had been distracted by the rare opportunity to work their magic freely Dumbledore had been able to appreciate each of his student's individual styles. Augusta Wallis obviously practised with Minerva and Miss Jones but was more direct in her approach than Ivy; who had a wonderful note of abstract in her thinking. He could notice Aster Searle's rigid and bookish theory in his wand work which was not dissimilar to Marcus Kettleburn's tendency to forge ahead in the most straightforward fashion that he could muster. Sterling Barrett was quick to find the easiest solution and twist the concept to his own methodology; which was a practice shared by Mr Longbottom though Walter worked it with a more mischievous flair. Xavier Carmichael had perfected the art of flashy simplicity that would be of little use outside of the classroom but Minerva… Minerva shone. From her movement to her thinking she was elegant and polished; effortless.

He conjured up a small table between them and set down the feather. Everyone had huddled in a semicircle around them. Augusta and Ivy were stationed loyally to Minerva's right while the other Ravenclaw boys had allied themselves with Dumbledore. Walter and Sterling were arguing in low tones, caught in the middle, before Dumbledore thought he saw silver change hands and Sterling stood by the girls while Walter moved behind Dumbledore.

"When you're ready, Miss McGonagall." He prompted, watching her closely.

Her eyes were darting back and forth between two imaginary points somewhere in front of her face before they glazed over for a moment and she twitched her mouth from side to side as if deciding something. This was somewhat familiar to Albus as he'd watched the same facial expressions several times a day while Minerva had been in the hospital wing and usually appeared while the chess set had been between them. It meant she was thinking, but more importantly, it meant that she was thinking a dozen steps ahead and contemplating every outcome. She was going to try and force his hand.

Readjusting her grip, she pointed her wand with a steady hand and the feather wound itself into a sparkling water goblet.

But she had no time to congratulate herself, Dumbledore had moved with a gentle flourish and a silver dagger with a heavy, ruby pommel rocked slightly on the wood. Minerva swallowed, thinking quickly and made a small, slashing stroke with her wand before drawing up her arm like she was lifting a marionette; a glittering golden necklace snaking its way through the air. Before she could blink the necklace was slithering its way across the desk; the golden lancehead poked its angular head into the air.

Ivy shrieked and jumped behind Sterling, who had already fallen over his feet to get behind Augusta, but Minerva did not flinch. With the smallest twitch the snake had frozen into a thick, gnarled branch and she looked up at Albus expectantly. There were two obvious moves now. He could morph the wood into stone or he could jump at the bait and-

In a measured stroke of absolute confidence Dumbledore had replaced the branch with a whirlwind of perfectly contained fire.

She shot him a magnificently self-satisfied smile over the flames, her eyes dancing in the firelight, and Albus felt his brain shift gears as he tried to figure out why. He did not need to wait long.

Minerva moved closer to the flames. With her left hand she reached towards the heart of the fire like she was sculpting clay, seemingly impervious to the heat, while her wand fought against the licking flames until they slowed and stood still. She hummed a sweet sound deep in her throat and withdrew her hand as the frozen flames seemed to melt away to reveal a rather simple wooden box. She tapped it gently and the grain seemed to flood with rich mahogany.

Dumbledore stepped up to the table feeling intensely suspicious.

"You've already used wood." He said cautiously.

"You should open it." She retorted smugly. Her collar was sooty and her forehead was shining and Dumbledore was reminded of the familiar sensation of walking into one of Minerva's traps.

Albus reached for the box. It was no bigger than a snuff box but felt warm to the touch and the moment he shifted the lid he knew exactly what she had done.

An all too comforting warmth blossomed in his chest along with the gentle rising and falling intonation of a familiar song; Fawkes' song.

"How did you do that, Minerva?" Augusta asked curiously, looking at Ivy as if she might have an idea but Ivy paid her no attention. She was touching at her collarbone cautiously; wondering how she seemed to have swallowed the liquid warmth that was surely spreading through her chest.

"She knew it was a phoenix feather," Dumbledore answered, he had opened the music box entirely and touched at the red silk lining; tracing the golden outline of a phoenix in flight with the tip of his finger, "didn't you?" he asked with wondrous amusement, looking at her over the top of his spectacles and gently let the lid fall shut.

She smiled sheepishly.

"That was very clever." He whispered in her ear before turning back to the class as the bell signalled the end of class, "Quickly or Professor Beery will be want to slip an ashwinder in my office again." He ushered them for the door.

"Miss McGonagall." he called at her retreating back. She looked over her shoulder and blinked politely in expectation, her hand on the door. He swallowed several times, not quite sure why he had called her back.

"Very… very well done." He said finally.

She flashed him a glorious smile that struck him somewhere around the middle and disappeared around the door, leaving the room significantly darker than before.

Albus turned the music box over in his hand and stared at the space where she had vanished.


	15. I Remain

_I had to make some adjustments to my original plotline after discovering some very explicit instructions in_ _ **Heroism, Hardship and Dangerous Hobbies**_ _by J.K Rowling. It goes without saying that those instructions and the characters of the HP universe belong to J.K Rowling._

 **3** **rd** **March, 1952**

Tired, cold, and still in their quidditch robes Minerva and Sterling collapsed heavily onto an empty bench beside Walter and Augusta.

"Is our fearless leader going to lead Gryffindor to victory on Sunday?" Walter asked Minerva, pushing a steaming soup tureen across the table.

She glanced over her shoulder quickly to ensure that no one was listening before answering.

"As long as Mallory can get to the snitch before Marigold." She admitted, feeling guilty.

"I thought Marigold kept falling off her broom any time she flew higher than 60ft." Augusta interjected, looking up from her copy of Witch Weekly, "She keeps falling down the stairs. She gave Mr Pringle a right scare the first few times, he thought it was Peeves with all the crashing and bashing."

Minerva shook her head, her mouth full of bread.

"Nah, Madam Doufant fixed her up. Something about her inner ear." Sterling grumbled as though he would have liked nothing better than for poor Marigold to continue toppling suits of armour down three flights of stairs.

"Did you get your prize, Minerva?" Walter asked, concentrating hard on not letting a rather large slice of apple pie falling off of the serving knife on its journey from the dish to his plate.

"My what?"

"Your prize," he insisted through a mouthful and Augusta swept pastry crumbs off of her magazine with a scowl, "for beating Dumbledore."

"Oh." She had forgotten that a reward for winning had even been on offer. She had been distracted by the powerful sense of pride that had blown up her ego one size too big. "No. I didn't." she realized.

"He should let you keep that music box." Sterling said and the others made various noises of agreement.

"It isn't a music box!" she exclaimed disparagingly, "You should know this! It's a phoenix feather. It was always a phoenix feather! It will always be…" but an epiphany stopped her thought dead, "oh my goodness…" and she pushed her plate away, banging her knees on the table as she got up, "it was in front of me this whole time!" and without further explanation to her goggling companions she sprinted the length of the hall and out the doors.

"She has never been one for explaining things has she?" Walter observed casually. Augusta shook her head in disapproval. Sterling was still eyeing her empty seat with apprehension.

"She had better not blow herself up again."

Whilst blowing herself up was not exactly what Minerva had in mind Sterling's concern was not as far from the truth as he probably would have liked.

She rocketed up the staircase to the seventh floor, narrowly dodging Peeves who was lurking on the fourth floor, shouted the password at a dozing Fat Lady and barrelled up to the girl's dormitory. She paid no mind to Ainslie and Vera who were whispering covertly on Vera's bed and dived into her trunk, searching in earnest for her copy of _Spellman's Syllabary_ and a very battered edition of a book called _Witches and Switches._

"What are you doing?" Vera asked with vague disdain, peering over the edge of her four poster.

"Work," Minerva snapped, "a foreign concept I know." But before Vera could work up a retort Minerva had thrown her books back into her trunk and swept from the room.

She emerged back onto the seventh floor corridor with nothing her wand and a scrap of parchment with a single word scribbled messily in black ink. The way to Dumbledore's quarters was cool and quiet save for the guttering torches. Most everyone was still at dinner or in the middle of their evening ablutions. She touched absently at her own hot, flushed face before realising that she was still in her gold and scarlet quidditch robes but continued on past the passage to the girl's bathroom, deciding that a bath could wait.

When she knocked politely but insistently on the door she swore that, if she strained her ears, she could hear the rhythmic whir of a turntable slow and stop.

Dumbledore did not look at all surprised to see her. Taking in her slightly rumpled and windswept appearance he noticed a worrisome glint lurking in her emerald eyes. Her fringe had stuck to her forehead in places and the faint scent of dew and cropped grass had followed her back from the grounds.

"I've come to collect my prize." She said with a lopsided grin.

"Yes, I thought you might." He chuckled and held the door open for her.

A very large bird of red and gold was eyeing her keenly from where it was perched across the room. It tilted its magnificent head from side to side as if sizing her up before shuffling its great wings and looking away rather haughtily.

"Don't mind Fawkes." He added, casually, as if it were perfectly normal for a phoenix to be in his sitting room.

His discarded teaching robe was hanging over the back of an armchair and she thought he looked strangely casual in socks and trousers with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His glasses were sitting, folded and forgotten, on a stack of what she could only guess where essays and his auburn hair had been pulled back into a handsome ponytail.

"I don't suppose that my prize is negotiable, is it?" Minerva asked, with one eye still watching Fawkes warily, as Dumbledore made for her to sit.

"How so?" he queried politely and shuffled through a teetering tower of largely unopened post beside his bookcase.

"A proposal of a more immediate resurrection of our lessons, perhaps?"

"I think that you will find," Dumbledore managed to finally extract what it was that he'd been searching for, "that our ideas are running rather concurrently." He pulled a sheaf of parchment from its envelope, flicked through them quickly and pulled away the very last page.

"However, I think that this may be of supreme interest to you and prove to be a more than satisfactory reward." And he handed her the parchment, folding away the remainder of his letter and tucking it safely in his pocket.

Minerva shot him a curious glance before turning to read:

 _...it only happens a few times._

 _However, I did manage to find what you were looking for:_

 _ **I.**_ _For the space of one entire month (from full moon to full moon), a single leaf from a Mandrake must be carried constantly in the mouth. The leaf must not be swallowed or taken out of the mouth at any point. If the leaf is removed from the mouth, the process must be started again._

 _ **II.**_ _Remove the leaf at the full moon and place it, steeped in your saliva, in a small crystal phial that receives the pure rays of the moon (if the night is cloudy, you will have to find a new Mandrake leaf and begin the whole process again). To the moon-struck crystal phial, add one of your own hairs, a silver teaspoon of dew collected from a place that neither sunlight nor human feet have touched for a full seven days, and the chrysalis of a Death's-head Hawk Moth. Put this mixture in a quiet, dark place and do not look at it or otherwise disturb it until the next electrical storm._

 _ **III.**_ _While waiting for the storm, the following procedure should be followed at sunrise and sundown. The tip of the wand should be placed over the heart and the following incantation spoken: 'Amato Animo Animato Animagus.'_

 _ **IV.**_ _The wait for a storm may take weeks, months or even years. During this time, the crystal phial should remain completely undisturbed and untouched by sunlight. Contamination by sunlight gives rise to the worst mutations. Resist the temptation to look at your potion until lightning occurs. If you continue to repeat your incantation at sunrise and sunset there will come a time when, with the touch of the wand-tip to the chest, a second heartbeat may be sensed, sometimes more powerful than the first, sometimes less so. Nothing should be changed. The incantation should be uttered without fail at the correct times, never omitting a single occasion._

 _ **V.**_ _Immediately upon the appearance of lightning in the sky, proceed directly to the place where your crystal phial is hidden. If you have followed all the preceding steps correctly, you will discover a mouthful of blood-red potion inside it._

 _ **VI.**_ _It is essential to move, at once, to a large, secure place where your transformation cannot cause alarm or place you in physical danger. Place your wand-tip against your heart, speak the incantation 'Amato Animo Animato Animagus,' and then drink the potion._

 _ **VII.**_ _If all has gone correctly, you will feel a fiery pain and an intense double heartbeat. Into your mind will come the shape of the creature into which you are shortly to transform. You must show no fear. It is too late, now, to escape the change you have willed._

 _ **VIII.**_ _The first transformation is usually uncomfortable and frightening. Clothing and items such as glasses or jewellery meld to the skin and become one with fur, scales or spikes. Do not resist and do not panic or the animal mind may gain the ascendancy and you could do something foolish, such as try to escape through a window or charge a wall._

 _ **IX.**_ _When your transformation is complete you should find yourself physically comfortable. You are strongly advised to pick up your wand at once, and hide it in a place of safekeeping, where you will be able to find it when you regain a human form._

 _ **X.**_ _To return to a human form, visualise your human self as clearly as you can. This should be sufficient, but do not panic if the transformation does not occur immediately. With practice, you will be able to slip in and out of your animal form at will, simply by visualising the creature._

 _Best of luck dear boy,_

 _P. Flamel_

"Albus…" she began in a voice quivering with suppressed and dawning excitement. "Albus, these are instructions." Her gaze was glued to the parchment in her hands as she read the words over and over again to assure herself that she wasn't hallucinating.

"I should have asked her sooner." Dumbledore confessed, "I wrote just after you'd been released from the hospital wing. I had hoped that she might have stumbled across something on animagi over the years… I had not expected her to come back with this."

Minerva was looking up at him with absolute joy, her lips parted prettily, eyes wide and bright with excitement.

"This was the prize all along?"

"It was." He confirmed with a smile.

"Assuming that I would win? What would you have done if someone had bested me?" she asked honestly and without a trace of conceit.

"My dear," he rounded his armchair to sit across from her, "there was never the briefest moment in my mind that I thought you might fail."

She felt herself warm under his praise before coming back to that first, unfinished sentence in Perenelle's rather loopy handwriting.

"What only ever happens a few times?" she asked suddenly, her brow furrowed in concern.

"Oh." The barest hint of embarrassment coloured his cheeks pink. "That's… that's something different."

Minerva let his secrecy pass without much notice. She was far too distracted in trying to remember the lunar calendar that Sterling had left open on the table in the common room.

"The 11th" he answered, knowing exactly what was churning through her mind, "The next full moon is the 11th."

She looked into his face expectantly.

"You'll let me try?" She beamed and he wondered how he could ever refuse her anything.

"Yes." He conceded with a smile of his own, her enthusiasm infectious, "but you'd best get back to Gryffindor Tower, Minerva." He suggested with a glance at the clock over his fireplace, "It's almost past curfew." He resisted the urge to help her out of her chair and followed her to the door.

After he had bid her goodnight and closed the door behind her Dumbledore noticed a small corner of parchment, quite forgotten, poking out from under Minerva's seat. A single word scrawled across it.

 _Maneo._


	16. Of Broken Wands

**Of Broken Wands.**

It was a good thing that Minerva had mastered non-verbal spells so early in the school year. Once again she found herself battling not to choke or chew on the single mandrake leaf she had pressed into the space between her cheek and her teeth. The effort it took to eat without losing the blasted thing meant that she often found herself desperately hungry between meals and only able to eat very little and very slowly. Unfortunately, being rendered almost completely dumb had an unfortunate side effect of becoming privy to a great deal of information she'd rather not know. Unable to plead for a cease and desist from either Augusta or Ivy she was becoming increasingly well versed in each of their personal lives. The more that she was forced to sit and listen, the more difficult it became to look either Walter or Sterling in the eye.

Fortunately, this also prevented her from mentioning the existence of an uncomfortable and ever growing sensation that she was wholly unfamiliar with. She found herself oddly distracted of late. It was difficult to concentrate when inappropriate, though undeniably pleasant, memories and vague musings interrupted her train of thought and filled her chest with a bizarre, fuzzy tightness. More than once she had found herself staring blankly at the pages of a book, waking from a reverie she did not recall slipping into, with no idea what she was meant to be reading.

She had caught herself, rather by surprise, on the verge of confiding this in Augusta. Mandrake leaf aside, she stopped herself before the thought was even fully formed and resolutely convincing herself it was just a bizarre imagining or, much more likely, a side effect of being constantly immersed in her friends' unrelenting, adolescent obsession for romance and whimsical sighing. Still, no matter how she tried, she could not shake these random intrusions that sprang up at the most unwelcome of times. It was not until she was absolutely unable to sit comfortably in Transfiguration one Tuesday morning, crossing and uncrossing her legs in an attempt to dissuade the tense weight lurking in her pelvis, that she conceded that perhaps it was not solely her desire to become an animagus that had had her so eager to re-continue her lessons with Albus.

Likewise, Dumbledore seemed to be pouring an enormous amount of effort into pretending that Minerva simply did not exist. Something that was proving more difficult than he had initially suspected. Minerva's induced reluctance to speak during classes, forcing her classmates to contribute instead, certainly aided in this but he could not stop himself from glancing in her direction with what felt like improper frequency. He found himself searching for her dark head in the crowds on the staircase and caught himself scanning the Gryffindors from the staff table at meal times. Though he convinced himself that no one would be able to distinguish this behaviour from his normal student policing without an invitation to sift through his tumultuous thoughts.

As the full moon drew closer Minerva felt her focus sharpen again. Ivy and Augusta had stopped using Minerva as an emotional sounding board as their professors began reminding them of their upcoming exams. Ivy began spending her spare time in the Ravenclaw common room again and Augusta limited her conversation to conferring with Minerva and her excellent study notes which left Minerva free to stress about the persistent cloud cover that had refused to budge over the past week. It had taken the better part of a fortnight to persuade Professor Slughorn to part with a very expensive Atropos crystalis without signing her soul over to the Slug club and Dumbledore had assured her that there would be place enough to collect a spoonful's worth of dew from the Forbidden Forest. The only thing that would hamper her progress would be these blasted, lingering wisps of cloud. So when she awoke on the morning of the 10th of April to find clear, undiluted sunlight streaming through the dormitory windows she almost swallowed her mandrake leaf in relief.

Minerva barely touched her breakfast and wafted absently through her potions lesson. She was so distracted during their double Defence against the Dark Arts period that Augusta managed to pin her to the floor with a Stickfast Hex while Minerva had been checking the time. It took several minutes for Augusta to find the counter-hex in their book. Professor Faulk had them revising OWL level spells during Charms. Walter spent an entire quarter of an hour deciding whether his Silencing charm had worked on Minerva, whose good mood had inspired a rather Malcolm-esque streak of tomfoolery, only discovering that it had not when she could no longer keep her laughter quiet. As the day drew on she found it harder and harder to sit still and fidgeted with anything within arm's length and Augusta was forced to drag Ivy over from the Ravenclaw table at dinner to force Minerva to eat something who seemed intent on staring at the ceiling to watch the sun set.

"I'm not hungry!" she mumbled insistently, pushing the mandrake leaf under her tongue so she could speak.

"You will be later. I'm sick of waking up in the middle of the night to your grumbling stomach!"

"Minerva if you don't eat something I'll summon the blasted thing out of your mouth and it will all have been for naught." Ivy threatened, drawing her wand.

Minerva shot her a filthy look of pure betrayal before reluctantly pulling a dish of buttered peas over to her plate.

"Thank you." And she stowed her wand away and went back to her house table.

She ate slowly and carefully until Augusta stopped watching her over a jug of dandelion juice and jammed the pockets of her robes with several dinner rolls and a Chorley cake knowing full well that later she would be starving.

It was almost 7 when they wandered back up to the Gryffindor common room. Minerva emptied her pockets onto her bed and refilled them with a single crystal phial, the box containing the moth crystalis, and a silver teaspoon. She checked the contents of her robes against the instructions that Perenelle Flamel had sent Dumbledore and then checked again before making her way back down to the entrance hall to wait for him.

She did not have to wait for very long. She was halfway through attempting to count the rubies in Gryffindor's hourglass when she heard the familiar gait of Dumbledore's heeled boots against the flagstones of the landing. He had fastened a midnight blue cloak around his shoulders against the evening chill and Minerva realised that she had left her own upstairs on her trunk.

"Ready to go?" he asked and she noticed a shadow of both anxiety and enthusiasm clash across his face.

The grounds seemed to thrum in the indigo half-light. The earth was soft underfoot and there was a constant murmur of life that was carried on the cool breeze, rustling against her robes and tugging gently at his hair. All the way down the sloping lawns Albus had the distinct impression that Minerva wanted to ask something and when she fixed him with a questioning glance as they were passing the greenhouses he hazarded a guess as to what it was.

"The gamekeeper has informed me that if I were to wander deeply enough into the forest I would come across a clearing that exists in a state of perpetual night. He says that it is frequented by the centaur herd who have undoubtedly recognised it to be considerably advantageous to their practice of divining from the heavens." He explained but Minerva's eyes widened significantly.

"The centaurs very rarely pose any threat to the inhabitants of the castle." He assured but appreciated her concern all the same. The centaurs were not the most hospitable creatures he had ever met in those trees. "In any case, I do not believe that you should have any cause for alarm whilst we are in the forest tonight. You are with me."

He turned his head slightly to look at her but she did not look frightened. On the contrary, she stood straight and tall with her wand raised against the encroaching darkness and fiery determination glittering in her eyes as she peered past the trees into the forest.

Hagrid had not lied when he said the centaurs' clearing was well away from the fringes. The moon had risen fully by the time they had staggered, slightly worse for wear, into an eerie field of knotgrass. Shivering, Minerva looked up through the circular gap in the canopy and was almost dazzled by the brilliant full moon. The stars winked down on them; clean and clear as gemstones. The night sky seemed strangely magnified, so close that she did not think it would not take much more than a stretch to reach out and trace the craters of the moon or pluck Mars away from its black canvas. The faint shiver of Albus' cloak over the grass brought her back to herself and why she was here. She found a space where she thought the moon shone brightest and knelt down on the damp ground, straining her ears for any indication that they were not alone.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she fumbled in her pocket for the crystal phial but dug the pointed base in the earth with a steady hand. Very carefully she jostled the mandrake leaf to the tip of her tongue and peeled it away gently before placing it in the phial. As her fingers came away a faint jolt of electricity shot through her arm but not even a rampaging centaur could have broken her concentration. Minerva reached up to let her hair down and plucked away a single hair. She examined it critically and wound it around her finger. Perenelle's instructions had not been particularly explicit but Minerva felt certain that for this to work the hair follicle would need to remain attached and so, without flinching, she pulled out another and watched as it coiled down to the bottom of the container. She used her wand to siphon off enough dew to fill the silver teaspoon and poured it into the phial, careful not to spill a drop, before easing in the delicate crystalis of the Death's-head Hawk moth. She set the stopper back in the phial and sealed it with the tip of her wand. She let out a breath she did not know she had been holding and noticed that her fingers were tingling with cold.

"Can we go?" she shivered, tucking the phial and her hands into her robes.

The light of Dumbledore's lighted wandtip wavered as he unfastened his cloak and bundled it around Minerva instead. The chill of the forest vanished as she felt herself enveloped in the smell of parchment and spun sugar, lemon balm and Albus' warmth.

"I'm not sure about you Minerva," he held his wand out in front of him to light the way, "but I'm rather in the mood for some cake and a very large mug of hot chocolate."

* * *

Chilled and slightly scuffed, they had locked away Minerva's potion in an old cupboard in his office. Dumbledore knew he should have let her go back to Gryffindor Tower. There was no real reason save for an overwhelming desire for sweets that he could think of to keep her company. Even so he was more than able to bother the house elves for an evening treat without Minerva. Unable to bring himself to bid her goodnight, he beckoned for her to follow him back down stairs.

"Albus where are we going?" she whispered as he led her down a brightly lit corridor off of the marble staircase that she had never noticed before. He did not answer straight away but stopped in front of a painting of an enormous silver fruit bowl. Now very hungry Minerva just wanted to go back to her dormitory where a stash of bread waiting for her but before she could object again Dumbledore had reached out and tickled the pear in the portrait. She watched in amazement as the pear giggled and squirmed under his fingers before transforming into a great, green doorknob.

"Oh my goodness." Minerva gasped as they entered what looked to be the great hall, save for the huge fireplace and the stacks of gleaming pots and pans against the walls. No less than 30 house elves swarming around the 5 tables that were laid out in replica of the ones upstairs.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir." Several squeaked as they noticed their visitors and hurried over happily.

"Is Professor Dumbledore wanting cocoa?" a little elf asked with a curtsey while her fellow tottered over with a tray laden with biscuits and two mugs of steaming hot chocolate.

"We is having no more sweets, sir." One explained, looking crestfallen, "but we still has treacle tart and scones!"

"We can bake a pie if you is wanting it." Another offered eagerly.

"I could never turn away your scones Philly," Dumbledore beamed warmly and elf who had offered them almost fell over herself in delight in her rush to oblige, "I don't suppose there is anything for a student who has missed their dinner is there?" A small team of elves had started setting a place for the both of them before Albus had even gotten his question out. The elf called Philly had returned bearing a plate of warm scones, jam and clotted cream and a dozen hands had made short work of laying out a chicken pie, green beans and loaf of bread for Minerva. She thanked them in a daze as they all ushered her to sit before they hurried away to take up their chores again.

"You must come here often." She teased lightly as Dumbledore set about spreading raspberry jam on his scones.

"Only every so often." He said with a roguish twinkle in his blue eyes.

"They must like you an awful lot to do all this for you." Minerva dug into her pie eagerly having quite forgotten what it was like to actually taste her food.

Dumbledore shrugged dismissively.

"They are kind to those who are kind to them and I could not, in good conscience, let you perform complex magic in the morning with nothing but stale bread for supper."

Minerva paused with her fork halfway to her mouth and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

"Have you been reading my mind?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched behind his napkin.

"You are not a very good thief." He explained, "I saw you take them from the dinner table… and your stomach is a great deal less subtle than the rest of you."

* * *

It was still dark when Minerva woke, not entirely sure why she was awake at all.

"Miss?" a small voice squeaked near her ear followed by a gentle prod in the back, "Miss is needing to wake up now. Professor Dumbledore is waiting for her."

"Philly?" she whispered into the dark, squinting through bleary eyes to see the little elf from the night before.

"Yes miss. You is needing to get up now. Professor Dumbledore is waiting." The elf repeated.

Grumbling sleepily, Minerva kicked away her covers and rolled out of bed. There was a faint _pop_ as the elf vanished and Minerva dressed as stealthily as she could manage in the dark so as to not wake the others.

The torches were burning low as she stole through the sleeping castle to the transfiguration corridor. It was the start of the Easter holidays. No one would be up for hours.

"Good m-m-morning." She yawned.

Professor Dumbledore was as fresh and awake as if he had been up for hours. Still rubbing sleep from her eyes, Minerva would not have been surprised if she could still find stray twigs in her knotty hair.

"Good morning. There are still a few minutes before day break." He mentioned, consulting the spinning celestial bodies of his pocket watch.

Minerva shook herself, stretched, then drew out her wand. Theoretically there was no immediate danger in performing the incantation. It had been Dumbledore's persistent, lingering anxiety that had insisted that she do so supervised for at least the first time. It also had the added benefit of ensuring that she did not sleep through the sunrise.

They watched as the sky began to lighten behind the mountains and as the first sliver of the dawn broke across the horizon Minerva touched the tip of her wand over her thumping heartbeat.

"Amato. Animo. Animato. Animagus."

There was an enormous bang!

A resounding crack and a hair raising scream from somewhere from behind a screen of purple smoke and silver sparks.

Albus cleared away the smoke with a wave of his wand, his blood cold in his veins as he dropped to the floor beside Minerva before he realised the pitiful, but completely innocuous, sight in front of him. Minerva was sitting rather awkwardly on the floor, her legs splayed at odd angles like a small child. The fingers of her right hand were pressed gingerly to her mouth and in her left were the tattered remains of her wand.

The tip of the wand had splintered in a kind of balloon shape as if someone had tried to force explosives through the length of it and clinging to the charred and smoking hilt with nothing more than a few scraps of wood and a shimmering silver thread. Her eyes were glassy and strangely empty. He thought she might cry.

Wands were easily replaced. He himself had gone through more wands in his youth than he cared to admit but they carried an enormous sentimentality to most witches and wizards. He had discovered, rather by accident, that Nicholas would sooner part with his legs than with his wand. But they had no room for sentimentality if Minerva was serious about her desire to become an animagus. He pulled her unceremoniously to her feet and jammed his own elder wand into her shaking hand.

"There is no time." He urged, glancing at the mounting sun. Still dazed, she touched Dumbledore's wand to her chest and repeated the incantation.

Minerva handed back Dumbledore his wand, shook her singed fingers grimacing, and tipped her ruined wand onto Dumbledore's desk. She felt uncomfortably exposed.

"My wand." She moaned and pulled at her hair in despair. "What am I going to do for exams… my mother is going to kill me."

"What kind of wand was that?" Albus asked before she could work herself into a panic.

"Umm… unicorn hair and ahh... ash. It was my grandmother's. It… It never really liked me." She confessed with a wry laugh.

Dumbledore was taken aback. Whilst his experience with wand lore was limited at best he knew that, while not especially powerful, unicorn core wands were unusually devoted to its original owner paired with ash wood… He was surprised it ever worked for her at all. Tucking his own wand away he rounded his desk and felt his fingers fall upon the smooth handle of a rather handsome wand that had been locked away safely in the bottom drawer. It was as warm as if it had been sitting in the sun for hours and he twirled it through his fingers reminiscently before proffering it.

"It's a walnut wand. Phoenix core. It had served me very faithfully for many years. I'm sure it will suffice until you can arrange for a new wand."

Minerva's had widened so significantly they seemed to take up most of her face. She did not take it, instead she took several steps back, shaking her head furiously.

"You defeated Grindelwald with that wand, didn't you?" She demanded in a tone of hushed reverence. "Albus, I couldn't possibly."

"Please. I insist. I would hate to have to fail you because you were too stubborn to accept a temporary wand."

The threat of failure in her impending exams seemed to do the trick. She reached out tentatively and grasped the walnut wand. A faint warmth glowed under her fingers the moment her skin touched the wood but vanished so suddenly she was sure she had imagined it.

"Every sunrise. Every sunset. Without fail."


	17. Trial by Fire

**Trial by Fire.**

 **April 1952**

The fifth, sixth, and seventh years who had elected to remain at Hogwarts over the break were spending their Easter holidays in varying degrees of stress. Tuesday afternoon had been the breaking point for a cluster of frantic fifth year girls who had shouted at two highly alarmed first year boys for playing gobstones too loudly. When Minerva had managed to speak with Ivy for more than a minute after dinner she noticed that those terrible dark circles had sprung up under her eyes again.

Gryffindor was not to versus Ravenclaw until the last week of May and so Sterling had not set any training sessions for his quidditch team until the end of April. Instead, he and Walter were spending increasingly long hours in the school library and not once had Minerva woken in the night to Augusta sneaking down the stairs. She was too busy furiously revising transfiguration and memorising charts of runes. For once, study was the least of Minerva's concerns. All the magical theory in the world could not help her if she could not perform any magic.

She had taken full advantage of her friends' absence and their preoccupation with their homework and took it as an opportunity to experiment with the phoenix wand that Dumbledore had lent her. It was not nearly as stubborn as her grandmother's old unicorn wand which had only ever given up its magic with the greatest reluctance but it did not seem to want to cooperate with her either. She felt that it was playing a rather strange game of tug-o-war with her and, even stranger, that it was being deliberately cheeky. She found herself asking herself if that were even possible but with every spell she cast she became more convinced that it was so. It performed every spell almost perfectly. Almost.

The day before the Hogwarts Express was due to return with her brothers and the rest of the school Minerva shut herself away in an empty classroom on the seventh floor. With regular classes about to resume she was beginning to feel more and more nervous about the lack of control and accuracy she had over her magic. She shut the door behind her resolutely, absolutely determined to wrestle obedience from it before Monday.

She had levitated the tables so that they all balanced one on top of the other until the leg of the very last one slipped and sent them all crashing down. Angry, she had righted them all with a long sweep of her arm only for the desks to all be facing the back of the room instead of the teacher's desk.

She tried summoning books from the shelves around the walls and while they all flew perfectly towards her outstretched hand they somehow managed to soar past her reaching finger tips.

She had animated one of the astronomy charts so that the planets and constellations rotated on their axis. All save for the constellation Auriga. It remained infuriatingly inanimate no matter how hard she tried it would not join its fellows.

Minerva could feel her ears burning in embarrassment and anger and without meaning to a thin stream of fire issued from the tip of the phoenix wand and burned contentedly and contained on the flagstones. She scooped it up in her hands quite easily and closed her fingers over the flames. They licked at her for a moment. Then went out.

The fire had a left a small sooty circle on her palm but it was quite cool. It was her wand hand, still grasping the walnut wand, that had flooded with warmth as it had done when Dumbledore had first handed it to her. It seemed to pulse slightly from the handle, fading away like a heartbeat. She breathed deeply and pushed her anger back down into her chest. Gripping the wand tighter she jabbed impatiently at the front desk. With a squeal it transformed into a very large, very irritable saddleback boar. It snuffled eagerly at the floor before belching up a great deal of shredded parchment. With a little scream of frustration she waved the wand again. The torches on the wall flared excitedly and the teacher's desk sat innocent and still on the dais once more. Breathing hard through her thin nose, Minerva whipped the wand about her head and the flickering torch brackets roared into life.

The room was flooded with a blazing heat. The flames crackled against the stone walls and licked greedily at the ceiling. With a whirl and a flick she tore the fire from their brackets and set it around herself in a dancing storm of red and orange. She had never been afraid of flames. Not even now as they obscured the room and blocked her only exit. The inferno was of her own making and it would not harm her unless she let it. It writhed and coiled about her in furious circles as she whirled her wand around herself like a fiery lasso. With a last wrenching flick the flames rocketed towards the ceiling where they burst in the shape of a great flaming bird before floating almost serenely back to their brackets.

Sweating and covered in soot she decided that that was quite enough for one day. The wand was hot in her hand and seemed to hum slightly. She slipped it up her sleeve for safe keeping, checked the class room was as it had been when she'd found it, and made her way hurriedly to the fifth floor before anyone would see her.

As she had expected, the castle was mostly empty but nonetheless she crept along the hallway of the fifth floor until she came to the statue of Boris the Bewildered and whispered "Gillyweed" against the door it concealed. Minerva slipped inside and locked the door behind her. It had been a long time since she had last used the prefect's bathroom. It was too far away and usually in too greater demand for the trek from Gryffindor tower to be worthwhile. She crossed the cavernous room on silent feet and turned on several of the golden taps.

Great streams of hot, perfumed water gushed out of three of the taps until the air was thick with the scent of juniper berries and crushed pine needles. Enormous pillows of glossy white foam spilled from another while its neighbour dripped giant bubbles of luminescent gold. Minerva peeled of her jumper and shirt, stepped out of her trousers and set down her wand beside her clothes before diving into the full bathtub. Resurfacing, she shook her wet hair out of her eyes and wiped a great deal of foam away from her face before swimming lazily back to the tub's edge where a stack of fluffy white towels were neatly folded. She sat herself on a ledge a little way under the water level and unwound her hair from its plait before dunking herself again. The foam around her turned grey as she scrubbed the soot out from her scalp and washed away from her hair. She reached over the edge of the bath for a flannel and pushed off from the wall towards the deeper centre. She floated lazily in the hot, soapy water and popped the golden bubbles as they drifted past. They burst in cold sprays of orange scented oil. Sinking up to her chin she washed her face until the flannel came away clean and scrubbed at her hands until they were red. The mermaid glared at her from her portrait on the wall but Minerva paid her no mind and dived under the surface again. The water was so warm and silky against her skin that she could almost not bring herself to climb out but she could practically hear her charms work calling her from her school bag upstairs.

She swam a few more lazy laps of the pool sized bath tub and rinsed her hair one last time before pulling herself out of the water and hurriedly wrapping a warm bathrobe around herself. She combed the tangles out her hair with her fingers and picked up her wand again. She ran the tip over her dirty clothes like a small vacuum and was pleasantly surprised when it did not burn a hole through her jumper. Not quite brave enough to try and dry her hair with the wand just yet she pulled her clothes back on over her wet hair.

It was late afternoon by the time she returned and the common room was just about empty. Edgar Jones was seated at one of the desks by the window mouthing along to his potions notes with his fingers in his ears and Robert Hudson was snoring softly on the lounge by the fireplace; one arm cast over his eyes, the other dangling to the floor. She crept to the stairs to her dormitory and retrieved her school bag as quietly as she could. She settled herself in one of the armchairs in a small alcove, tucked her feet up under her and took out her school books. The sky was still blue outside, Walter and Sterling would not be back for hours yet and Augusta, no doubt, would reappear when Walter did. It was times such as these that Minerva missed Balthazar's company. Two years above her, Balthazar Smith had been one of the Gryffindor beaters before he had graduated last year. He had been clever and amusing and Minerva had found him to be perfectly likeable (much to her surprise he had thought her to be so too). Despite taking on only 5 NEWTs he would always study with her while her friends were otherwise occupied and took every opportunity to ask about muggles and how they lived. In fact, he had been the first person she had willingly spoken to about her father and her life outside of Hogwarts. Staring around the room from her armchair, she wished that he were here now to distract her with questions about motor cars and kitchen appliances. A small smile crept into the corners of her mouth at the memory and she opened her charms book and started to read.

Sterling staggered through the portrait hole just as it was starting to get dark almost bent double under the weight of the books he'd piled into his bag. Minerva pushed her own things away and got up to help him.

"You'll do yourself an injury if you keep this up." She reprimanded quietly, picked up the tomes poking out of the top of his bag and examined them, "You don't even need this one." And she set the books down on the table.

"I thought it might be useful." And he eased himself into the armchair beside hers, slipping his bag over his head as he went.

She pursed her lips, "Have you ever heard of the saying; work smarter not harder." But Sterling was leaning back in his chair with his eyes shut.

"You know me McGonagall. I've taken too many bludgers to the head." And he grinned without opening his eyes. "Not seen Walter today have you?" he asked with a yawn. Minerva shook her head as he sat up and grumbled something she couldn't make out. She was watching the horizon as the sun sank lower and lower in the dark ruby sky. Waiting on the sun, she decided, was a very tedious business. The moment that nightfall was a sliver of gold away she slid her wand from out of her sleeve, touched the point to her beating heart and repeated the words she had said that morning.

"Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus."

"Can we eat now?" Sterling asked wearily as she put her wand away again.


End file.
